


The Spy Who Hated Me

by Walor



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Grayson (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Art, Graphic Torture, Implied Noncon, Implied forced prostitution, M/M, Slow Burn, Violence, no capes AU, rival spies au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-25 19:33:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 142,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walor/pseuds/Walor
Summary: Dick Grayson is an agent of the Justice League, an international peacekeeping organization that uses espionage and subterfuge to protect the world--or, as Dick likes to call it, James Bonding. After taking care of a Georgian terrorist cell in Cairo, Dick encounters a very attractive and distinct man. In the end, however, arresting gun-toting criminals trumps getting a hottie's cell number. Bummer. That's until Dick starts seeing the same man everywhere he goes while investigating one of the world's most dangerous gangsters; Roman Sionis.What are the chances this unknown man is a trusted co-conspirator of Sionis or an ally hidden in not-so-plain sight? Dick, armed with only his sass and encyclopedic knowledge of Disney, has only a short time to find out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof here it is, the bang fic turned novel from hell. What started out as a silly idea with no real plot turned into this. And I enjoyed every second of it.
> 
> This fic was a monster and I am forever thankful to have [MissNaya](https://dicktofen.tumblr.com) as my long suffering beta. Please check out her works [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya). Everything she writes is amazing and makes my heart hurt in all the greatest ways.
> 
> I also was accompanied by several incredibly talented artists! 
> 
> Crem drew the gorgeous piece of the touching moment between Dick and Tiger at the end of Chapter 1. You can find her tumblr [here](https://orange-mimosa.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Kiwi, my darling, went above and beyond. She made a stunning visual novel that includes Dick and Tiger's first 3 meetings and then the ending that you can play [here](https://kiwiliko.itch.io/the-spy-who-hated-me)! (The password is: dikdik). Included in the fic is the amazing ending piece that can be found at the end of Chapter 2.  
> [Kiwi's Tumblr.](http://kiwiliko.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Onthestraightandnarrowpath, delivered the last stunning piece of Tiger and Dick standing together above Roman's villa. It is absolutely astounding and I am so thankful to have been paired with such dedicated artists. Check out the art link and Path's tumblr [here.](https://onthestraightandnarrowpath.tumblr.com/post/180607967908/so-you-think-you-can-hot-wire-this-car-pah)
> 
> Check out my [tumblr](https://awonderfultyrant.tumblr.com/).
> 
> EDIT: 12/4/18
> 
> Mentions and a discussion of Tiger's faith have been added to the fic.

Dick believes in luck. He believes in fate and coincidence and divine intervention and whatever else sounds sappy and romantic enough to express the sentiment of destiny. The entirety of his early life on the road with his parents was hallmarked by the release of different Disney movies—his mother adored Snow White and his father, Aladdin—where such things are as normal as talking horses. Staring up at the caved in fiery ceiling of the formerly beautiful villa that overlooks the Sea of Marmara, comes an epiphany. That fate isn’t marked by songs or beautiful men and women in stunning regalia, but rather the tiring re-occurrence of an exhausted man’s frown.

Coupled with an international human trafficking ring, gratuitous—in Dick’s opinion—head shaking, the worst disguise in human history, and an extraordinary amount of cheek. That’s of course without the inclusion of the most awkward “bath” of Dick’s life. When Dick became a field agent for the Justice League—an international organization that was an offshoot of Interpol minus the European headquarters and inability to make arrests—he was expecting a lot more James Bond assignments. Plus, the cute femme fatales. Instead, he wound up with " _Pee Wee Herman Spends a Week Watching a South American Dictator’s Credit Card Records_." That, and a man who probably would love to see Dick choke on his own spit.

He’s getting ahead of himself.

Speaking of said man, Dick can hear him shuffling about a not-so-far distance away, shifting in the rubble and groaning lightly. He would too, if half of a building just fell on his head. Which, as a matter of fact, _owww_.

Most of the words out of his mouth recently have been variations of “ow,” “owie,” “ow-ow-ow,” or the classic “ouchie.” He’s sure that portion of this nightmare-turned-fantasy-turned-nightmare-again began the moment Dick found out his fate was inevitably tied to a man whose greatest fancy was Dick’s neck in his—admittedly very strong and very sexy—hands.

Closing his eyes to the flaming portion of rubble above him Dick lets himself think back to when it all went wrong. Dick can pinpoint when it starts—kind of hard not to when the memory itself was given the spank bank award for the "Most Erotic" category. Seven months to the day, July 7th, in Cairo.

* * *

It's sweltering in Egypt.

Midsummer, midday, the sun is a knot of heat beating down on the capital city.The majority of the locals stay in cool shade, watching traffic in the streets or the tourists taking pictures around the gardens bordering the Nile River.A family, sitting on the walkway near the glistening blue water, snaps pictures of their children. They are covered in melting ice cream with El Andalos Park in the distant background.

The mother counts down. When she reaches “One,” Dick lands face-first out of breath between the children and the camera lens.

"Sorry!" he shouts. Picking himself up and ignoring the startled cries, he books it through the mass of people. They stare at him, an equal mixture of concern and irritation.  
  
He’s sweating enough to be thoroughly drenched and nauseous from his own pit smell. Exhausted too and a little thirsty, but hey, sprinting across stucco rooftops because he got a little too ambitious eavesdropping on two, very nasty, Georgian terrorists will do that.

Shayera is going to kill him. They had spent a week tracking, scoping out the location, and preparing for the inevitable meeting between the Georgian rebels, lead by former USMC captain Hadrian Armstrong, and their weapons supplier, Vandal Savage. It had been going well enough.  
  
Until the centuries-old would snapped beneath his weight.  
  
The fall scared them as much as it hurt him. Then he was out, running down the crowded streets of the Cairo while men in black suits chased him and told him to stop. As if that ever worked in the history of being chased by bad men ever.

His arms and knees are scraped but not bleeding, and the snapback hat with the big ol’ 420BLAZEIT across the front is sitting only slightly askew on his head. The picture of a "white" douchebag down to his Gucci sandals in a sea of nicely-dressed Egyptian men and women. His mission partner, Shayera, had given him the clothes early that morning before the start of what was supposed to be an “observe and report” mission. He dumps the hat in the nearest garbage bin he finds.

Despite his banged-up appearance, no one gives him the stink eye as he slinks in and out of storefronts, waiting until he thinks he’s given his pursuers the slip. In the hour it takes for Dick to visit every store on the block three times, no one comes running.After giving himself a nice pat on the back for a successful escape—praise cross country varsity—he realizes he’s in the middle of wherever-the-hell and may or may not have forgotten to brush up on his Arabic before leaving.

_Good one, Grayson, truly the brightest of the League._

He stands in the road like a class A asshole, cursing the fact he lost his earpiece somewhere along the frantic run, before crossing the street and staring at the road signs. He’s only able to make out the word “STOP.” At least his disguise has him pinned as a tourist, but he’s too far away from any noticeable stuff to be overlooked as another sightseer. The longer he stays out in plain view somewhere utterly devoid of loud, white tourists, the more chance he has to be spotted by some unsavory folks.

And that’s when it happens.

He decides to ask for directions, looking toward the nearest café that sits on the corner of the street. That's when Dick first sees _him_.

The ghost that's been haunting him. For now, he's sitting at a table, eyes glued to his phone. Wearing a wool sweater vest over a white button-up, with light brown slacks and nice men’s shoes. A pair of glasses sits low on his nose and nearly covers the light mark of a scar across his left brow. And he’s hairy— _oh shit is he hairy_ —with a neatly-trimmed beard and mustache.

(Later on, Dick’s wet dreams about teachers and bears would increase by about 115%.)

The man is the only one sitting by himself. That’s good; Dick doesn’t want to draw more attention by interrupting someone’s conversation. Hardly the best route to take while being pursued by Georgian rebels. He puts on a smile befitting the loud American frat boy he’s supposed to be playing, and greets the stranger with a “HEY!”

The man startles slightly, eyes—a gorgeous amber—snapping up from his phone and landing on him. There’s a second of confusion before his pupils narrow, and Dick knows that this is where the attraction must have started. He’s a sucker for that look of innocent shock on a handsome face.

“Do you speak English?” Dick asks in that obnoxious New York accent, scratching the back of his neck and feigning sheepishness.

 “Yes,” he says, flicking his eyes back down to his phone, irritation obvious.

Well, two can play at this game, Mr. Handsome Man.

He asks for directions, butchering the pronunciation. The man looks mortified.

“English is fine,” he insists, speaking a little more clearly now. Dick beams. He’s the _worst._

The interaction lasts less than a minute. Dick asks for directions again, in English, and the man gives him a detailed and clear route on how to get back to his hotel, possibly trying to avoid the risk of Dick coming back for clarification. Dick, admittedly somewhat frustrated from the botched mission, interrupts him several times with stupid questions. He’ll admit that he plays the part of the stereotypical tourist a little bit too much, but watching the man’s face flush pink in anger is cute. He’s on “vacation,” right? He can afford to indulge himself a little. Even if it’s at the expense of a poor “local.” Which Dick now doubts.

Eventually, he gets what he wants, thanks the man, genuinely, and leaves.

He remembers that face more than anything when he gets back to his hotel. Handsome, foreign, and intoxicating, it sticks out more than whatever words they’d exchanged.

Dick realizes now that this had been the beginning of the weirdest relationship he’s ever had in his life. Oh, sweet, innocent past Dick, jerking it in a humid hotel room from that adrenaline rush and the fleeting face of a man he spoke to for two minutes. How young he was.

How _ignorant._

* * *

The second time is innocent enough that he can categorize it as an odd coincidence.

Dick’s in Italy. Ostia, if he’s going to be specific—and he is, because he remembers every detail, down to the he fact it’s only been a week and four days since his cock-up in Cairo—sitting on the dock while he waits for those Georgian pricks to show up. He’s a day ahead of their schedule, so he’s relaxing in the harbor, leaning back on his hands as he shyly throws glances up at the sun, cruel mistress that it is, behind his sunglasses.

He hears light footsteps behind him on the dock, listens to their hesitant rhythm as they pause every now and then. His gun—which isn't really a gun, but a modified dart shooter filled with Propofol—is strapped to his waist beneath his loose tank. He doesn’t want to have to use it, but if that is the Italian contact those Georgians are going to shack up with, he’s prepared.

When the footsteps continue, he stills his legs in the water and tilts his head, trying to catch a glimpse of the stranger out of the corner of his eye. Eventually, the sound pauses behind him. Dick huffs a sigh of annoyance and leans back to look at the intruder.

He nearly laughs at the image.

Crocs greet him, bright yellow and ugly, below hairy legs and the stupidest shade of brown cargo pants Dick has ever seen. Looking up further, he sees a god-awful fanny pack, then a Hawaiian shirt covering a man who looks so hopelessly lost that Dick feels bad enough to want to help.

He gets up and shakes some of the water off his feet before approaching the man, who is looking back and forth between the boats and a piece of paper in his hand. While Dick isn’t playing the part of dock worker, he doesn’t think helping this poor man—who looks like a sad, lost dad—find his boat will blow his cover.

He opens his mouth to greet him and freezes up.

The man’s beard is a lot thicker, and the ridiculous circular glasses he’s wearing throw Dick off for a second. But the scar, _that scar_ , is there, and Dick chokes back a noise of recognition.

“Hello,” Dick starts, emphasis on the hell, because what the _hell_ is going on? “Are you looking for something?”

Dick asks in English because, on the off chance this is the man from Cairo (which he doesn’t doubt), he doesn’t want to ruin his disguise with something as simple as an accent. The man turns around to face him with a bashful smile, obviously having watched Dick get up. That’s not weird. Situational awareness is not weird, but Dick feels like he’s in the Twilight Zone or something. It’s not like the guy jumped out at him from nowhere, but sirens are going off in his head, and Dick’s wondering if he’s been watching him since he landed in Ostia and flirted with the twink at the dock.

“S-Sorry,” the man stutters, same thick accent. If anything, the voice is a little deeper and he looks slightly older than the man in Cairo, but beards add age. Dick’s still suspicious. “I am looking for boat.”

He doesn’t clarify which boat, just shoves the piece of paper towards Dick expectantly. Dick flicks his eyes down at the paper, hesitating only slightly before reaching forward to take it with the care of a bomb defuse. _Orpheus_. Greek name. That’s weird, right? Dick blinks. He looks up at the man, then to the paper, then to the man. The fuck. He’s going to get sniped on the middle of the dock because this strangely familiar bearded dad man is no way in hell looking for a boat named after a Greek myth in _Italy._

“I can’t make out,” the man starts, and Dick jumps in surprise. He can’t help it. “The letters well.”

“Ah,” Dick says, because what else is he supposed to say? No? No, you can make them out because you spoke perfect English a little over a week ago? Dick’s not about to admit he’s insane. But this is the craziest moment of déjà-vu he’s ever had the horror of living through.

Looking around, he expects to find a boat full of Georgian terrorists rolling up in _Orpheus_ with Ashton Kutcher manning the helm ready to scream “Punk’d!” Dick’s always wanted to be on television.

He doesn’t get his big shot on American television, though, because he finds the boat far on the left end of the dock. It’s bright yellow and covered in Italian ads for parasailing, and Dick only nods, pointing to the abomination born out of the Ostia tourism agency’s filthiest wet dream.

The man, who’s gone quickly from naughty to nightmare fuel, groans in embarrassment. Dick wishes he could be so innocent, worrying over a stranger’s opinion of him for misreading boat names rather than wondering what kind of alternate universe he’s managed to be zapped into. The man thanks him, reaching an arm out to shake his hand, a move Dick worries might collapse the time-space continuum—until he remembers that that only happens when you meet your alternate self. _Duh._

He shakes his hand. It’s warm and firm and Dick squeezes a little too hard in return, trying to prove this is real and not a dream. Dick looks at him, thankful for the sunglasses, and stares into his amber eyes, looking for some minuscule flinch of recognition. He doesn’t find any. Why would he? He’s the one thinking strangers look like other strangers. This is probably some latent racism. All Egyptians look the same. The man’s probably not even from Egypt. Bad Dick.

The mission with the Georgians has him on edge, that’s got to be it. Dick watches the man go, chalks up his own odd behavior to stress, and plops down on the dock to stare out at the horizon.

He stews over it for another minute and then just lets it go. Can’t be thinking about weird stuff like that all day. Lock it up in the vault in section A where embarrassing memories like body shots off a hairy man’s belly button are. That’ll do it. Saved and stored to regret another day.

An hour later he feels stupid.

Really? There’s no way the man at the café in Cairo and this guy were the same. Impossible. Aside from the uncanny facial feature recognition, their personalities were miles apart. The cool confidence of the man in Cairo was nowhere in the amber eyes of the store-manager-dad-looking man on the docks.

Dick has half a mind to stick around to catch the man after he comes back from his parasailing excursion to ask if he has family in Cairo. Is that weird? His sudden obsession with a stranger he interacted with for two minutes and then jacked off to for ten? It’s probably weird. He blames those Georgians for being a no-show. Letting his mind focus on weird shit instead of whether this terrorist group has nukes.

Whatever. Coincidence and all that. Won’t happen again.

* * *

Oh, stupid Dick.

Of course it happens again.

And this time—third time's the charm—he’s on the other side of the world. Italy and Egypt? They’re not neighbors or anything, but they’re close. Close enough to where a mini-vacation for a suburban Egyptian dad makes sense. Two hours tops.

This would be _12 hours._

“I’ve seen that guy before,” Dick murmurs to himself as he glares out the window. He digs his fingers down into a box of some weird biscuits with kanji written all over it that Tatsu-Agent _Katana_ hasn’t bothered to translate for him yet.

He’s just gone grocery shopping for his weekend in Osaka before he flies out to Moscow for his next assignment. Armstrong and his rebels have disappeared off the face of the Earth, leaving Shayera to clean up the rest of Savage's goons in North Africa. Dick has wiped his hands clean of “The Case of the Mysterious, Handsome Clones” and is on to greener pastures. He didn’t ask for this.

This sexy scar ghost.

“What.” Tatsu—fuck it, Dick’s not going to get in trouble calling Agent Katana by her first name in his head—states rather than asks as she fills up their shopping basket with fresh carrots. Dick doesn’t respond. The man across the street flips through the newspaper.

While Dick doesn’t have Google zoom-in vision, he can tell the man is the same because he's wearing the same goddamn clothes from Cairo. Stupid black sweater vest and sleek glasses. It’s been two months since Ostia and longer since their fateful day in Egypt, but damn it, how few clothes does this man own?

His beard is a full-on bush now, albeit neatly combed, but he looks out of place with the rest of the local population on the street. Like _way_ out of place. Dick remembers laughing when Tatsu told him about rockstar syndrome and forced Dick to wear sunglasses whenever they went out. But seeing a person stop by the man’s table every few seconds, giggling and asking for a picture, Dick realizes how intelligent Tatsu is.

_But is he insane?_

Other people on the street seem to see him, but is he imagining _this?_ All the interactions he's had with the man are very Twilight Zone hitchhiker-esque. Is this his punishment for jacking off to a stranger he barely knew? Will this happen with all the porn stars he’s thought about? Maybe it’s an agreement thing. They knew going into it people would think about them when they experiment with a finger up their ass. Cairo dad man? Eh. Debatable.

Maybe Dick’s dead. Doomed to walk the Earth as a lonely spirit haunted by a disappointed father figure. He should ask Tatsu.

He doesn’t exactly know how to breach the topic, exactly. _Do you notice the odd man out over there? Yeah, he’s making me uncomfortable_. That’s probably grounds for a report to his superiors.

“Do you see that man?” Dick tries sensitivity. He doesn’t glance down at Tatsu, who’s stopped looking at butter lettuce with an annoyed sigh.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.” Tatsu deadpans. Really, Tatsu? Not the obvious man across the street?

Dick risks the racial lawsuit. "The dark one."

Tatsu's face colors angrily and she grits out through her teeth, " _Grayson."_

"Do you see him?" Dick persists. The quest of knowledge stops for no man.

"Yes, I see him, but Dick, this is extremely poor—"

Dick cuts her off with a sob. He could have sworn he was going insane. He could kiss Tatsu.

“Holy shit, thank God.” He pushes up his sunglasses to wipe a stray tear. What an emotional month. “Oh man, I thought I was going nuts.”

“You’re being dramatic.” Tatsu looks unimpressed, but she turns and peers outside at the man sitting across the street. He’s since put down the newspaper and shoos away any other local that approaches him. Karma hurts, doesn’t it, sexy stalker man?

“What’s so special about him?” Tatsu’s mouth settles into a firm line as her eyebrows pinch together, carefully picking apart the details of his face.

“I’ve just been seeing him a lot.” Okay, a lot is an exaggeration, but three times in three different countries has got to be weird.

“You shadow him?” Tatsu turns to look up at him. Oh. Well. That would have been a very simple thing to do.

“Ah,” Dick begins, sweat dripping down his back. “No, I haven’t.”

The punch to his side is expected, but Dick stumbles away still, clutching at his waist with a whine.

“Moron,” Tatsu reaches into her jacket pocket to pull out her cellphone. “Unbelievable. You’ve been a field agent for how many years now? Five?”

“Who are you calling?” Dick interrupts. He doesn’t need to sit through a lecture on his failure to report his run-ins with dreamboat-nightmare-scar-man.

“Someone you should have called the second time you saw him,” Tatsu hisses, holding the phone up to her ear. She was calling Tim, then. _Tattletale._

“That could be a totally different guy,” Dick interjects with a frown.

It’s true. The men he’s seen may not be the same, could have completely different blood types. However, the shocking familiarity of each, as well as what could be a point of origin—both had Arabic accents, and all “three” of the men have a distinctive ethnicity—makes it worrisome that Dick’s being followed. He’s not sure why. The case with the Georgians wrapped up weeks ago, and if this was a contact of theirs, there would be no reason to A) still be following him and Z) not have warned the Georgians of their meeting in Ostia.

Tatsu holds a hand up and Dick grumbles pitifully, glancing back down to the box of biscuits in his hands. He plans on eavesdropping in on the conversation, but when Tatsu responds to the voice with a chirpy “Yamashiro desu,” he quickly tunes out.

Should have paid more attention in Japanese 101.

Dick leans against the nearby wall, going back to staring out the grocery shop window. He smirks to himself as he watches the man, who he’s decided to call Scar—for its simplicity and his likeness to the Disney lion of the same name—grow increasingly irritated at the attention random strangers are giving him. While the scene is hilarious, Dick can’t help but realize the oddity of the situation. If this is the same man who was following him with the purpose of discovering information, he’s astoundingly poor at creating disguises. Scar got away with it in Cairo because he was, more than likely, from Egypt and knew how to seamlessly fit into society. It seemed like he didn’t know how to do so anywhere else if that stunt in Ostia was anything to go by. And while Dick is not exactly a carbon copy of the local male population of Osaka in any way, his plain clothes, sunglasses and black hair give him the ability to weave in and out of crowds without causing too much of a disturbance.

Tatsu laughs a little beside him before mentioning Dick several times. Dick can’t tell exactly what they’re saying, but he assumes it’s something along the lines of, “This dumb asshat.”

“Okay,” Tatsu says after a minute, hanging up and slipping her phone back into her jacket. “So, there’s been no mention of any known terrorist-affiliated operatives entering Osaka recently.”

“Nice,” Dick grins. No need to worry about being strangled by Scar tonight.

“Easy,” Tatsu scoffs. “You forget the ‘known operatives’ part of this equation? He could easily be a new hire. Don’t know for who though, considering you’ve only worked with Eastern European criminal groups, none that had any strong connections with—” Tatsu pauses and her cheeks turn a dark shade of red.

It clicks after a second. Dick grins.

“Any connections with what, _Agent Yamashiro?_ ”

Tatsu pales at Dick’s use of her proper name. She groans and pinches the bridge of her nose, cursing under her breath.

“Any connections with Middle Eastern terrorist groups.”

“I don’t remember saying he was from the Middle East,” Dick wonders aloud, tapping his chin. He gasps in mock horror. “Someone’s stereotyping.”

“Where did you meet him?” Tatsu sighs, pulling out her phone to correct the mistake. Dick waves her off with his hand.

“It was in Egypt. The only group based in North Africa I can think of tailing me on the previous cases were the weapons dealers the Georgians bought from. Savage was working with Theo Adam in Khandaq, but only members of Savage's personal guard were at the meeting. Can’t think of why they’re continuing to keep tabs on me now that the case has been handed over to the Mukhabarat.” Dick scratches at the back of his neck with a free hand. “Could be a hit.”

“I don’t think a hitman would allow themselves to make that much of a scene.” Tatsu crosses her arms over her chest. “Besides, we’ve been staring his way for how long? He’d have slipped away the moment you laid eyes on him if that was the case.”

That’s sort of true. Why Scar is just sitting at the café table getting mauled like some idol while Dick stares at him in horror is, well, _kind of_ odd.

“Maybe it’s an intimidation tactic,” Dick says. Tatsu sighs and mutters something insulting under her breath.

“Maybe talk to him?” Tatsu tries. Dick shakes his head.

“Bad idea.” The last time he engaged with Scar he spent a whole night thinking about him. _Not today, Satan._

“We could find out who he works for,” Tatsu says, but Dick shakes his head and shoves the box of biscuits into her basket.

“No can do. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to finish grocery shopping so I can go home and spend the night in a marathon jack off fest, since I’m not gonna be able to get the chance to for the next two months.” Dick smiles pleasantly and walks away as Tatsu sputters in embarrassed terror.

When they leave the supermarket an hour and five large bruises later, the man is gone.

Dick can’t help but feel a little disappointed they couldn’t talk.

* * *

Dick wasn’t kidding about not being able to jack off, not that Tatsu would understand the plight with that tiny libido of hers.

Moscow is scary.

Not because it’s in Russia, a place where he doesn’t like being for more than five seconds. Not even because of the shady-as-shit Russian Intelligence Agency that is the SVR RF. Or even having his nose constantly assaulted by the disgusting smell of beet soup.

It’s because of Leonid Kovar.

Dick remembers “Agent Red Star,” whose name he won’t even use in his head in fear of the retribution that would come on the off chance that walking terror had telepathy.

When he first started working at League as a data analyst, back when the SVR RF was still an unscrupulous cockhead trying to fuck the world with its big cactus dong, Dick had been in charge of translating Russian documents before he was streamlined into field agent training. Leonid was their mole, a dedicated Russian civilian who would die for his motherland, blah-blah-blah, who didn’t want to see the world blown to shit because his government liked shoving its head up its own ass. He was nice, and from what Dick remembered—when they were both young, 20-year-old kids with stars in their eyes dreaming of becoming James Bonds—was that Leonid was an extremely tall, gangly, soft-spoken stick-in-the-mud. He liked Leonid because he was passive and submissive to Dick’s abrasive and cocky attempts to do as much as he could to further his career.

So, when Dick put Leonid in a position that threatened his chance at becoming a special agent, he didn’t feel all too guilty. Leonid, a field agent? Yeah, right. Kid could barely walk up a flight of stairs without getting winded. He was doing him a favor.

And then one day the two of them stumbled across a document. A very sensitive document that was supposed to be off-limits. It was too dangerous to bring to light, threatening the position of every single Russian agent that was sympathetic to the League—and by extension, the CIA bastards. Leonid asked Dick to delete it for their sakes. Dick did.

After he had sent in the translation to his superiors.

The promotion Dick received meant becoming a field agent way ahead of schedule at just twenty-three years old, two years younger than the position’s youngest allowed agent.

For Leonid, it was a transfer to Murmansk on the Barents Sea.

Dick knows this is karma. Karma for being a huge dickwad. He hasn’t seen Leonid in five years, and if the phone calls he made in Osaka arranging their rendezvous were anything to go by, Leonid hasn’t forgotten Dick screwing him over. Leonid hadn’t mentioned it, but his tone promised _suffering._

Dick doesn’t want to give Leonid any more reason to tear his cock off.

Tatsu Yamashiro is a short-tempered control freak that makes Dick’s visits to Japan irritating at best and uncomfortable at worst. But he’d rather be chained to Tatsu’s desk for all eternity than put a foot into Russian aerospace in fear of Leonid sensing him like a Soviet Jedi.

He almost wishes Scar was a hitman. At least he would have died someplace peaceful, like Osaka or even Ostia, instead of _here._

Here, in Hell.

And by Hell, Dick means sitting in the passenger’s seat of a police car, sweat pouring down his back as he nervously keeps his eyes trained in front of him, _despite_ wearing sunglasses.

He’s wearing an ill-fitting Russian police uniform with a hat so tight it pinches his temples hard enough to give him a headache. His shirt is missing two of its top buttons that give a, dare he say it, _gratuitous_ view of his chest beneath his blue shirt— _because you’ll do anything to get what you want, won’t you, Dick?_ —with an overcoat three sizes too small he had to abandon because of how badly it squeezed his shoulders.

It’s petty revenge, and goddamn if Dick isn’t worried about what else is going to happen in these two months. If they’re even able to wrap it up that quickly.

Despite Dick being the senior agent out of the two of them, Leonid is mostly in charge due to his experience in working with Russian human trafficking rings. That, and at this point Dick wouldn’t challenge Leonid’s authority anyway.

Leonid’s changed a lot. He was tall before, but now he’s _gigantic_ , with arms and legs as thick as tree trunks. He could easily be mistaken for a non-green, human-sized Hulk. The identical police uniform Leonid wears looks like it can barely contain him and Dick is too terrified to feel turned on by such obvious daddy material.

Leonid takes one hand off the steering wheel and reaches out, wrapping it around Dick’s shoulders. Dick sucks in a breath. _This is it, he’s going to strangle me._

He laughs, loud and deep, making Dick startle, gripping his pant leg as he chances a glance out of the corner of his eyes.

“You're so nervous!” Leonid chuckles, _darkly_ , as he squeezes Dick’s shoulder. “You do not have to be so worried. We are only doing traffic stops today.”

“Oh, thank God,” Dick laughs weakly in response. Leonid obviously likes teasing him, and Dick will take that over having the shit beaten out of him.

They don’t talk much. Dick’s alright with that. The less they talk, the less of a chance there is of Leonid bringing up Dick’s betrayal and asking for an apology—which Dick won’t give because he isn’t sorry, and who knows how well _that_ would go over. When they do talk, it’s about the case. They talk location, where they’ll be doing the stops, how Dick will carry out the inspection as Leonid reports the car back to the bureau to see if they have a match on suspected pimp cars.

They work surprisingly well as a team. Not that it’s completely unexpected; they were good before, there’s no reason why being field agents would change that. Dick’s more surprised at the professionalism that Leonid exhibits when he _isn’t_ being petty. Both want the case to be over so they can go back to not being in contact with one another. That works out in their favor.

Dick isn’t looking forward to sharing a studio apartment with Leonid, though.

Good-bye stress relief.

“The red sedan's a little odd,” Leonid muses.

They’re parked along a country road on a hill overlooking a long distance of flat farmland with few houses scattered around. There’s a farmhouse on the road behind them that was busted only three days ago as a dead drop for the trafficking ring. The only cars that make sense driving out here are beat-up trucks with Siberian farmers making their way back home after buying equipment. The sedan, though miles away, already stands apart from the dull, rust-colored passing cars.

Dick hums in agreement, leaning further back on the hood of the cruiser. “Any of the suspected cars red?”

Leonid laughs. “No, but they could have bought a new car.”

While Dick won’t argue with that, most people doing illegal things at least attempt to blend in. Having a red car in the countryside is weird. Dick’s well acquainted with weird.

“How long are we doing traffic stops?” Dick’s already bored, which is a step above petrified, but if he’s going to spend most of his time being bored or terrified he’d like to know.

“Until we have a better lead.” Leonid cracks his neck as he pushes himself away from the car to stretch his arms. “The dead drop was the first break in the case.”

“Jesus,” Dick groans and lays back on the hood. “Is there anything we can do to speed up the process? I’m not supposed to be here indefinitely.”

“We could make an ad on Craigslist.” Leonid strokes his beard thoughtfully. “Two cops looking for hookers.” Dick snorts at Leonid’s accent emphasis on the hook. “Will not tell a soul.”

“Sounds a little boring,” Dick says with a grin. “Make it more enticing. Handsome young spy looking for a good time with a classy-totally-not-hooker type lady or gentleman.”

“Ah, still like James Bond, hm?” Leonid teases, pulling at his beard. “Does this make me evil Russian bad guy?”

“You said it, not me.”

Dick’s smile drops at that. Oh, _great._ They’ve been together for only an hour in a sort of truce state and Dick’s forgotten the cardinal sin already. Leonid can joke around. Not him.

Leonid stops messing with his beard, shifting on his feet so he’s standing full in front of Dick, casting a long and large shadow over him. Dick immediately props himself up on his elbows, playful mood abandoned as Leonid glares down at him.

Dick adjusts so he can push himself up, but Leonid stops him by grabbing his shirt collar. Dick gulps and offers a light oh-shit-don’t-kill-me laugh. Goodbye, cruel world. Choked to death in the middle of Stalin-era farmland by a literal bear.

Leonid instead relaxes his grip and pushes aside Dick’s shirt experimentally, hand brushing across his chest. Dick can feel blood rushing south. No, bad cock, stop that. Leonid frowns after a second, removing his hand and shaking his head. “Nyet,” he mumbles softly under his breath.

“W-What?” Dick forces out when Leonid moves away and finally gives him room to breathe.

Leonid looks at him mournfully. “You’re too old to be bait.”

Dick should get angry at Leonid thinking about using him as bait for a _human trafficking ring_. Instead, he sputters, “I’m not old!”

“You have gray hair.” Leonid points at his chest. “Maybe two years ago you would be passable, but now? No good.”

“I’m 28!” Dick leaps off the hood of the car, motioning to himself. “I’m at the peak of athletic shape!”

“No,” Leonid waves a hand, looking away. “Too old, your body is already going.”

There are few things that Dick can inherently call his own. Things that he can be proud of. Vanity, for example, is one of them.

Dick flushes in embarrassment and turns away from Leonid, who is hiding his mouth behind his hand as he chuckles lightly. Asshole. Sure, Dick deserves it, but _asshole._

The sound of an approaching car puts an end to whatever lame comeback Dick could of think of in response. He steps away from the car as Leonid heads back around to the driver’s side and waves them over when they get closer. Dick watches the car slowly pull to the side and glances to Leonid before giving a nod. Hopefully, Leonid will get a match before Dick’s halfway through his brief questionnaire with the driver.

Dick walks over to the unlicensed car—that’s a big enough warning in itself—and taps on the driver’s window. He mumbles very quietly under his breath, practicing his Russian dialect, before he begins the conversation.

“Evening.” He grins at the driver, who looks nervous—another red flag—gripping the steering wheel tightly. “How are you doing tonight?”

“Fine.” The man’s voice is light, surprisingly deep for someone who looks so young, and accented. Dick guesses the accent is American, considering how hard the Rs are pronounced, with a subtler one underneath. He can’t pinpoint it, but assumes it might be Spanish or Turkish, considering the man’s facial attributes—

_Oh, fuck no._

It’s him. It’s Scar, and it took Dick forever to notice, because _wow._

He didn’t know someone could go from literal dad material to jailbait by shaving. Facial hair does add ten years.

Scar isn’t just missing his beard. There’s no trace, not even a hint of stubble. Like he waxed it off. His arms that had very noticeable thick, black hair are smooth and clean-shaven. Even his eyebrows have been styled and plucked into a nicer, less bushy shape.

Dick knows men who look bad when their facial hair’s been shaved off. It seems like that doesn’t affect Scar, who went from ruggedly handsome to delicately gorgeous.

His face, now that he can see it fully, is sharp, but not too sharp, with soft lips. He’s more than likely wearing contacts, because there are no glasses obstructing his view of those cute-ass moles this time. He’s wearing a plain white shirt that’s a little loose with faded jeans and dirty converse, and Dick can’t believe it, but Scar looks smaller than before.

Hair adds everything, including muscle definition. Bear to twink in one simple transformation. He went from looking late twenties to barely legal.

“Get out of the car,” Dick demands in English.

Scar’s demeanor does a sharp 180. The soft nervousness he possessed when he was first pulled over is gone, eyebrows pinching together as an ugly scowl crosses his face. Okay, ugly is a little too harsh of a word, because Scar is still incredibly attractive when he’s angry. Damn good-looking people.

“What?” He asks. It’s in Russian and Dick would commend him for sticking to character if his face didn’t give him away already.

Dick doesn’t have time for this. He pulls out his gun and points at him.

Scar tenses up, but slowly releases his hands from the steering wheel and reaches for the car door. Dick keeps his face neutral, mentally analyzing the move. The lack of nervous fear to the sudden gun trained on him means he’s been in this kind of situation before. Not that it’s surprising to Dick now, of course; Scar isn’t some normal guy. He’s not gun shy, which does not really bode well for Dick’ sake. Thank God he got the jump on him this time.

He’ll have to ask Scar why he’s been playing chicken this whole time, rather than getting to the point.

Dick slowly makes room for Scar to exit the car as he moves out of the way of the door. He can distantly hear Leonid getting out of the police cruiser behind him. That’s good. For the first time since he arrived in Moscow he’s glad Leonid’s with him. Scar will be less tempted to run with that mountain of a man standing next to him.

Scar keeps his hands high as he moves out of the car, stepping away from the door before standing still.

Dick motions to the hood of the car. “Put your hands down and spread your legs.”

Scar doesn’t move. “You’re making a big mistake.”

It’s in English this time and Dick resists the urge to click his tongue under his breath. If he wasn’t so worried about what Scar was up to, he’d teach him what it meant to have a disguise. You can’t break character for anything. Scar apparently missed the memo.

“I don’t think so. Hands on the hood. _Now._ ” He tilts the gun and Scar, keeping eye contact for as long as he can, sets his hands down on the hood, then turns his fiery glare toward the trees.

“What’s going on?” Leonid’s voice is a quiet rumble in Russian behind Dick. There’s a little hesitancy in his voice but he stays behind Dick without much of a fuss.

“I’ll explain later.” It’s a poor excuse and Dick feels bad for using it, but he doesn’t have the time to give Leonid the run down until Scar is in cuffs and locked in the back of their cruiser. The man has a habit of disappearing.

Leonid huffs lightly in annoyance, but stays silent. Dick moves forward and kicks Scar’s legs further apart when he doesn’t spread them enough. Scar turns his head to the side slightly, glaring at him out of the corner of his eye. Dick feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up when they make eye contact even through the barrier of his sunglasses.

“Lay down on the hood.” Dick says it slowly, but Scar already knows what to do, tilting forward and lowering his hands.

Obviously, he’s been in this position before.

Scar lays his upper body against the hood of the car, hands behind his back, turning his head so he can glare up at Dick. Dick finds himself smirking, a little too happy to be the one to have made the first move. He deserves it. All those sleepless nights spent thinking about—and jerking it to—Scar. He’s paid his due diligence.

“If you would.” Dick steps aside, Scar’s eye tracking his movement, so Leonid can search him.

“You’ll regret this,” Scar starts up again. Dick barks out a bitter laugh.

“Really? That’s your million-dollar comeback? Try to be a bit more original next time,” Dick says. The hell? This guy’s literally been riding his ass for who knows how long, and now Dick’s the bad guy for not letting him do whatever the hell he wants? Bad guys these days.

Scar falls silent as Leonid begins the pat down. Starting with his leg and moving up before moving down his other one. Scar keeps eye contact with Dick throughout the procedure, only grunting softly when Leonid must reach underneath him to search his chest.

“He’s a little rough, isn’t he?” Dick teases with a little wink. “Can’t help it with those massive hands of his.”

“Dick,” Leonid warns underneath his breath. Dick shoots Leonid a glare.

Leonid realizes his mistake immediately, quieting down and reaching to his belt to slide out his handcuffs. While Dick knows he’ll feel a lot better when Scar is locked in place, he can’t help the demand that slips from his lips.

“Search his pockets.”

Leonid takes a moment to eye Dick in slight confusion before he slips his hands into Scar’s back pockets, finding nothing and reaching around for the front. Scar presses his hips against the car, making Leonid have to grab the loop of his belt and pull him back, Scar’s cheek dragging against the hood uncomfortably.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Dick warns, relaxing his stance slightly, but keeping his gun hand firm. Leonid reaches into the front pockets and pulls out a wallet. Dick grins. Hopefully, Scar has a wallet it in there with a real or fake name. Either one will help. Fake names can be useful, especially if it’s one that’s been used in the past. Dead drops make references to names, and they can see where the person using the fake name came from last—for example, in the case of Scar, if his fake identity recently bought a plane ticket out of Osaka.

Dick’s ready to do a little dance in victory when Leonid lets out an excruciatingly loud howl of pain. Dick glances up for a second to see a quickly-disappearing cloud of red mist and Leonid throwing the wallet on the ground, clawing at his face, before Scar is suddenly on top of him.

Dick lands on the ground with a thud, gun sliding of his hand as Scar pins his arm. His head falls back and hits the dirt, disorienting him for only a second, giving Scar just enough time to slam into his neck with a knife in hand.

His vision goes white, and the next thing Dick knows Scar is off him, grabbing his gun and throwing it, throwing it, way off to the side. Leonid sprints and Dick scrambles to his feet, wobbly as all hell from that hit to his pressure point. Scar, too fast for the both of them, drops to his knees and shoots out his leg to sweep Leonid off his feet.

It’s like a tree falling. Leonid lands on the ground hard enough to cause a tiny earthquake. Dick tries not to think about it too hard as he rushes Scar who is waiting for him, snapping up and lunging to the side as Dick throws a left hook at his face. It’s messy, and Dick can hear his trainer back at League shaking her head in disappointment.

Scar snaps forward, grabbing Dick’s wrist and yanking him forward into an awaiting knee. Dick grunts in pain as the wind flies out of him, gasping as he brings his right hand up and down against Scar’s hold on his left arm.

Dick stumbles back and straightens himself out just in time to get a roundhouse kick right in the jaw. _Flexible, sexy bad guy._

He watches the world spin as he lands on his back _again_ , swallowing his vertigo to catch Scar snatch up the dropped wallet and swing into the sedan. Dick rolls onto his stomach as Scar throws the parked car, which he forgot was still _running,_ into reverse and speeds out of there. Dick moves onto his knees and watches the sedan speed off. Leonid, cheeks covered in tears and snot, finally picks himself off the ground.

"Come on, get in the car," Dick shouts. He's not letting Scar get away this time.

* * *

Spoiler alert: they don't catch Scar.

Leonid, for all the intimidation and terror he’s capable of, apparently cannot handle being pepper sprayed in the face.

And while it isn’t normal pepper spray in that wallet trap of Scar’s—more like dinosaur mace—Dick’s been sprayed multiple times throughout his agent training. It hurts, but he can fight through it, and the fact that Leonid hasn’t been put through the same course is 1. fucking unfair and 2. ridiculous. They just lost a suspect because Leonid was incapacitated and Dick had to spend 20 precious minutes pouring cold milk into his eyes.

When they were finally able to move, Scar was long gone. They had to head back to the station early where Leonid, contrary to Dick’s imagined idea of his workplace, was flocked by concerned coworkers.

Thankfully, the tension that plagued their relationship when Dick first arrived is gone. While he’s grateful for Leonid’s lax desire to murder him while he sleeps, Dick’s still pissed Scar got away.

His Russian superiors, however, are similarly concerned once Dick explains the situation of his constant run-ins with Scar. Likewise, Dick finds himself on edge after thinking about the situation with the wallet. Unless Scar carried around a wallet like that 24/7, Scar knew or at least expected to be stopped along the expanse of road where Dick and Leonid were stationed, brought out of the car and searched. Why else would there be a booby-trapped wallet?

Dick can’t figure out what the point is, though. If anything, they were distracted twenty minutes, tops. Not enough time for a car to slide by undetected. Besides, they would have seen a car coming up behind the red sedan Scar drove, which they didn’t. It’s not like Scar grabbed anything while they fought, eager to get away from the two of them.

Similarly, if Scar was distracting them on behalf of the human traffickers, what the hell was he doing in Cairo, Ostia or Osaka for that matter? It wasn’t like Dick was part of this case back then.

Damn, his head hurts. This is too confusing.

He stops thinking about it. It’s not like he can do anything on his own, anyway. The only reason he doesn’t spend all his free time connecting red threads over a map in some conspiracy theory craze is because he doesn’t have any free time. A transportation van full of sedated victims got busted in St. Petersburg and the two of them barely have enough time to book a room—a single, with one tiny bed—before the driver starts singing.

They have dates for auctions, hotels where buyers have stayed, as well as drop-off points and pick-ups. The actual police force oversees most of the easy stuff like busts and securing off buildings used to house victims, while Dick and Leonid are put in charge of going to auctions. The auctions are nothing like the ones in movies, where a bunch of naked men and women are placed on stage and are bet on by perverts in smelly, damp jeans. They’re mostly held at fancy casinos where the flash of a golden business card at some bored-looking waiter will get you a small slip of paper, one where you mark off your interests like you’re creating your own hamburger. Send that off with the next waiter and tada, return to your room and there’s a whore fitting your particularities waiting for you. It’s all very business-like, so there being a “dress code” isn’t anything unexpected.

Dick likes suits. He _loves_ suits and tuxedos and all that fancy gentleman wear. But it’s been two weeks of wearing nothing _but_ tuxedos, and he’s about to lose his mind.

Because with tuxedos comes the “discreet gun straps,” and with discreet gun straps comes _pain._

Specifically, bruises from the tightness of the straps or the awful pinching or cuts from the leather bands digging into his skin. Oh, sure, it’s a training field agent’s wet dream, but having to do it consistently for nights upon nights in a row is akin to some sort of medieval torture. A very fashionable torture, but still painful and fear-inducing nonetheless.

It’s no surprise that the ache of his bruises from the shift of the tight straps disallows him from thinking about Scar when his mind’s not preoccupied with thwarting the trading of human beings. That, and being so concerned with not crossing the unspoken barrier in the small single person bed onto Leonid’s side, because neither of them could agree on who got the floor—no, you take it, no you.

In any event, Dick should have expected the sixth time, because fate, for whatever divine reason, is determined to get them together until one of them kills the other. Or fucks him.

For the moment, however, Dick is knee-deep in complete _shit_ because he has never been good at staying quiet for longer than a minute.

Dick’s running like he did in Cairo, like he did in Gotham, like he did during training, sliding over tables of people playing blackjack as the ape of a man chases him through some uppity Russian casino. He’s so upset the “wrong room” excuse didn’t work for him when he fell out of the ventilation shaft and onto the table in the private betting room where three assholes were talking about the new shipment of girls that just arrived in. Now their Sasquatch of a door man is chasing him. One did laugh though, so not a total loss.

He shoves open the door that connects the hallway of private game rooms to the main casino, nearly knocking an old lady onto her ass as he pushes his way into the waiting crowd. He knocks over every single person in his path, hoping it’s enough to slow down Mr. Big-and-Ugly behind him, shouting loud enough so his earpiece—and probably half the casino—hears him.

“Leonid, I need an evac stat, or else I’m going to end up as paste if I don’t get sold to some foot fetishist first.”

“Rather egotistical to assume someone would pay for your dirty feet,” Leonid’s voice cracks over the earpiece, amused. “They would lose money with you.”

Dick ducks as a chair flies past his head and into a sad Pachinko machine where it splinters apart on impact. Guess they’ll have to add drug charges to the whole human trafficking thing. That man must be on the most lethal cocktail of horse steroids known to man. “Now is not the time for joking, where's the exit?”

“I would not suggest front door,” Leonid says. “The guards have guns.”

“Yeah, I noticed that coming in,” Dick hisses, skidding to a halt when he spies the emergency stairway. He bolts to the door, jumping to the side when a waiter drops his platter of drinks and tries to grab him. Dick makes a mental note to cry over all those spilled martinis. He swings the door open, slams it shut, and starts sprinting up the stairs. He only gets as far as the second landing before the casino floor door opens.

Dick has a nervous habit. When someone chases him, he starts to laugh. It slows him down, obviously. However, during field agent training he got so used to being chased and running for his life the habit’s all but been beaten out of him. But when the guard’s heavy footfalls start pounding up the stairs behind he barks out a shrill laugh.

“Do not pull out your gun,” Leonid warns in his ear piece as Dick reaches into his jacket. “You will make a scene.”

“And having my neck snapped in a stairway won’t?” Dick’s taking two steps at a time as he rushes up the stairs, glancing at each door he passes to check for a fire extinguisher. “I think you want me dead.”

“You do not have silenced pistol.” Leonid’s accented _pee-stol_ makes Dick shout out another borderline terrified laugh. “The backup guards will have guns drawn in response. For now, no one is shooting. Keep it that way.”

Dick doesn’t respond, putting his energy into outrunning the Hulk instead. On the fifth floor, he finally spots the object he was looking for, panting as he lunges towards it and pulls it free from the wall. He raises it up above his head, turns around and chucks it at the guard who’s at the bottom of the stairs behind him.

The man, despite his surprise, quickly moves out of the way and stops to watch the fire extinguisher slam against the wall behind him and drop to the floor. He looks up with a shit-eating, “you missed me” sort of grin. Dick takes pleasure in wiping it off when he pulls out his gun and shoots the extinguisher.

That gives him just enough time to dart through the door to the fifth floor. He finds himself flanked on either side by marked guest rooms.

“Do you not like to listen to advice?” Leonid’s voice is deathly quiet. Whatever joy Dick had seeing the guard get blasted with white fire retardant is gone. Now there is only fear.

“It was an accident,” Dick swears under his breath, hurrying down the thankfully-unoccupied hallway.

“I do not believe you.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to feel that way.” Dick hears the door to the stairway swing open as he takes the left at the end of the hallway. It opens to a small room with two chairs pressed against the left side of the wall facing the golden doors of two elevators. Across from him the room narrows again to what must be another hallway of rooms—though Dick can’t exactly tell, because there’s only a few feet before the path veers right and out of sight.

Dick cards his hair back, neck hairs bristling as he hears the footfalls of his pursuer while he presses both the up and down call buttons for the elevator. He’ll take whatever arrives first.

He feels his breath catch when a far-off door opens a second time, only this time it’s coming from the opposing hallway and the footsteps are sprinting rather than warily approaching like his original chaser is.

“Three coming from the right. I told you no guns,” Leonid says.

“It’s a little too late for that.” Dick snarls and presses the buttons again. “Which one will open first?”

“The left, no one in it. You are a lucky man,” Leonid sneers over the line.

“Save the attitude until I’m out of this mess,” Dick whispers as he presses himself against the doors of the left elevator, pulling out his gun. “You can give me the greatest tongue-lashing of the century when the danger’s gone.”

“But what if you die? Then you will not know how mad I am.”

Dick’s heart jumps into his throat when he sees shadows from the right side as the elevator dings in arrival. Dick leaps back into the elevator, reaching forward and shoving the close door button with a snap of his arm, holding his breath as the elevator doors start to slide shut.

“Stop!” someone yells in Russian. A man in jeans and flannel, bandana over his mouth and beanie pulled far down on his forehead, slips in between the doors.

They slide shut, and the elevator moves.

The two stare at each other in shock for a second. Then bandana man reaches down, hitting the button for the top floor—the 40th floor—before the doors can open again. He looks back up at Dick, holding up a gloved hand in acknowledgement and says, in muffled Russian, “Evening.”

Dick offers a hesitant smile, moving to raise his own hand when he realizes he still has his gun out, albeit now hanging loosely at his side. Awkward.

Bandana man seems to take it in stride, raising his arms up and points at the gun slightly. “You put away, yes?”

His Russian is choppy, but that’s the least weird thing out of the entire situation. Dick finds himself staring at the blue and purple floral pattern on his bandana. He shakes his head.

“I’d rather keep it out.” While the man doesn’t look visibly armed, his homemade cat burglar attire doesn’t exactly scream “totally normal guy.” The man’s posture is stiff, and his eyes—amber, from what little of them he can see—flick down between Dick’s gun and his face. Dick assumes the flighty behavior is from mistaken identity. While it would be nice to tell the sad burglar that he isn’t one of the meatheads defending the casino, he certainly does not want to have to defend himself if the man tries to take his money. Or whatever else he’s breaking in for. _So very discreet, sarcasm._

“Are you going to turn me in?” Bandana questions, inching back toward the elevator numbers. Dick lets him. If he wants to get off earlier and run, that’s fine with him.

Dick doesn’t offer a confirmation, holding the gun out slightly, lazily, showing his rather obvious intention not to fire while Bandana presses his back against the control panel. Bandana lowers his arms and cautiously reaches for the buttons, carefully avoiding the call button for the emergency services like Dick knew he would. Then he hesitates, fingers brushing against a random floor number as he studies Dick’s face.

His pupils widen in surprise before he launches himself at Dick, who’s so caught off guard for the second time in two weeks the gun falls out of his hand as he’s thrown against the wall. Bandana pins one arm to the wall above his head, raising his elbow to shove it against Dick’s neck.

“Who are you?” the man barks in English, and then it clicks, like always.

Dick curses under his breath, because only _Scar_ would catch him at such an inopportune time. This time, however, Scar is too frazzled for whatever reason to notice he left Dick’s other arm free.

The grunt of pain that leaves Scar when Dick slams his left fist into his temple is incredibly satisfying, especially when the arm on his neck loosens just enough for Dick to pull his right arm free and shove him back. Scar stumbles backwards, hitting the elevator doors before he springs up, a tad clumsily, but fast enough that Dick doesn’t risk a dive for the gun.

“Who are you?” Dick demands, raising his arms up. Scar mirrors his pose.

“I recall asking you first.” Scar flicks his eyes towards the gun and Dick fakes a hit to make sure that Scar backs off the possibility.

“No, I’ve put up with enough of this. It was funny for a second. Tell me who you are now or else,” Dick says.

“I don’t think you can follow through with that threat,” Scar says, calling his bluff. “Your earpiece tells me you’re a distance from your friends.”

“Yeah, well, this has made me mad enough I’m an inch away from opening a can of whoop-ass on you,” Dick retorts, glancing at the floor level they’re on. 11, great.

“Your foul mouth is worse than your fighting.”

“How’s your head feel?” Dick mocks with a curl of his lip. He hopes Scar is frowning. Damn that stupid bandana.

They fall into a moment of silence, neither of them making a move for the other as the elevator continues to ring with every floor they pass. Dick speaks again when they reach floor 18.

“Why were you in Ostia?” Two can play at this game. If they aren’t going to give up identities, motives will suffice.

Scar’s eyes narrow at the question. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I thought we were past playing dumb?” Dick licks his lips. If he makes a go for the gun Scar will no doubt try and pin him again. Likewise, in such a confined space, Dick and Scar both know that firing the gun is probably the worst decision because of the possible ricochet. The control panel, however...

Dick focuses on Scar. If luck is still on his side, he’ll get the distraction he needs.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Scar says instead. “You look different without sunglasses.”

It occurs to Dick in that moment that Scar too must have a name for him based on a single trait that is a constant part of his attire. And being called _Sunglasses_ simply won’t do.

“I almost didn’t recognize you without your scar,” Dick responds with a half-smile. Scar’s eyes pinch together in what’s probably anger or embarrassment. “Dick is a better calling card.”

He’s purposefully vague, though Scar seems to pick up on the hint for him to give Dick a name well. “Your friend pick that nickname out?”

Dick shrugs. “You better tell me yours or else I’m going to call you Triple A, for Anonymous Arab Asshole.”

“That’s fine.” Because of course Scar still has to be purposefully difficult. _What an asshole._ Still, he admitted to seeing Dick on those multiple occasions, which is at least something. “But I am not Arab.”

“There is someone waiting for the elevator on twenty-fifth floor,” Leonid says softly into his earpiece. “I cannot tell if it is a guard. You need to get out of there.”

“Can you access the elevator controls?” Dick says out loud, because damn it. Both want off, and Dick doesn’t mind vocalizing the fact that there are people watching them on his side. Dick’s positive Scar can’t say the same.

“No,” Leonid answers. “I can shut down the power grid to casino, but it would leave you stuck in the dark with him until the generator comes on.” Both know Dick won’t be asking for that, so the line goes silent.

Scar’s posture stiffens, waiting for a reply. As if Dick would give him one. Dick checks the floor level number. 20.

“You don’t know what kind of hell is going to come for you if you don’t start talking,” Scar says finally, spreading his arms apart. Dick realizes that maybe he isn’t going to be able to slip away as easily as he assumed. “You’ve seen too much to let you walk.”

There it is, the death threat.

“That’s the most unoriginal line out of your mouth yet. You’re like a walking copyright infringement.”

Scar lunges at him, starting with a fake-out as he swings his right arm forward before dropping it and following it through with an upper cut from his left. Dick had thrown his hands up in expectation of the right hook and narrowly breaks off, forcing himself against the wall of the elevator to avoid his left fist. Scar is quick to step back, giving them space before jumping up with that well aimed roundhouse kick at his jaw. Dick’s ready this time around, throwing his arm up to block the kick and grabs it before Scar can bend it back fast enough.

Rather than attempt to break Scar’s leg, which Dick finds himself oddly hesitant to do, he throws him to the side and into the wall. Dick grins when he hears the thump and hiss of pain. _That’s right, karma’s a huge bitch, isn’t it?_

Dick looks at the floor level, 22, and snatches his gun, rushing Scar as he picks himself up off the elevator floor. Dick’s quick to turn Scar around and shove a leg between his thighs, one of his elbows pressing harshly against the middle of his back effectively trapping him against the wall. Scar tries to squirm free, but can’t gain a solid enough stance with Dick’s leg upsetting the placement of his own, lifting him up just enough so that he’s on his tiptoes.

Dick rests the barrel of the gun against Scar’s head to stop him.

He remembers once in field agent training how sad he was to learn that most of the fights he saw in Hollywood movies that went on for minutes upon minutes were, often, never seen. That most of the time they lasted only seconds, with well-aimed hits meant to stun rather than prolong the fight. However, it’s times like these, frustrated and out of breath, that he’s glad he can end it quickly.

“Listen, sweetheart,” Dick starts, and knows that is going to get him in trouble the next time they run into each other. “I’m being serious when I say this. I’m letting you off this time because I have bigger problems. But next time you better have some answers for me, or you’re going down so fast you’ll need more than your glasses to see straight.”

“What?” Scar mumbles, confused. Dick feels his cheeks grow hot. Goddamnit. Why can’t he think of sassy comebacks at a time like this?

The elevator comes to a halt and the doors slide open where, thank God, an old man stands blinking in shock at the sight of them. Dick raises the gun and slams it down on Scar’s head. He steps away as Scar collapses on the floor, pressing the button to close the doors as he exits. The old man pales and Dick flashes him a brilliant smile, holstering his gun.

“He had a little too much to drink. Sorry for the disturbance,” he says sweetly in Russian, hitting the down call button on the elevator. He reaches into his pocket, watching the man startle in fear, and pulls out his wallet. A few hundred is pocket money for the agency; he slides the wrinkled bills into the old man’s palm.

“I heard table five is lucky tonight. You should go have fun and forget everything you just saw.” Dick grins wider in his best-you-understand smile, smoothing his hair back and walking down the hallway he got off at. Now all that was left was to find the escape route.

“You are a charming spy, yes?” Leonid hums over the ear piece.

“Shut up and get me out of here.”

* * *

“Pick up,” Dick groans into his phone.

He feels something wet land on his cheek and looks up at the dark, cloudy sky miserably. Damn Russia and everything about this weather.

It’s his day off, and he’s on an unsupervised and unauthorized stakeout because he hates himself. Dick’s leaning against the brick wall behind a restaurant, barely lit from the dim lights of the street behind him as he looks down a disgusting alleyway. He’s standing next to a pair of huge, ugly dumpsters, resisting the urge to plug his nose from the foul smell of rotten fish and chicken.

He hears the distant boom of thunder and pinches the bridge of his nose. At least it isn’t pouring yet.

He hopes the waiter isn’t missing him at the table and hasn’t sent someone out to see where he’s run off to. He regrets not being able to sample the red wine he ordered before he saw one of their suspects brought into the kitchen of the restaurant. Even off the job Dick’s getting work done. Go him.

Except now he’s bored and bitter, huddling up behind a disgusting dumpster by himself as he waits for Leonid—who decided to spend his free day with friends—to answer his phone.

Dick wishes that Scar would make an appearance, even if it was to beat the shit out of him. At least he wouldn’t be so lonely. It’s only been four days, though. Scar needs at least a week before initiating one of their random “run-ins.” Oh well.

There’s a soft muffle and the sound of clinking metal off to his right, meaning someone’s coming around the side of the restaurant. Dick prepares to move, expecting another member from the kitchen staff coming out again to throw the trash away.

 _Ha ha,_ says the universe. _Fuck you, Dick._

There’s two guys, two _massive_ guys, who look close to bursting out of their suits, with the limp sack of a human body thrown over Thing 2’s shoulder. Shoulder man’s wearing a suit too, at least from what he can tell, because the man’s legs are wrapped up in rope to the point of overkill. His arms are similarly bound.

Well, that is certainly something.

Dick’s standing outside of a _restaurant,_ of all places— _would you like your dinner with a side of human slavery?_ Why the hell are they taking people here, where anyone can see them? It’s absurd. He’s technically not in “mission-mode” and, like Murphy’s Law, shit always goes down when he’s the epitome of unprepared. In all honesty, he shouldn’t be here, at one of the marked places that's been suspected of working with the pimps, but he doesn’t know what better way to spend his free day than casing the building for the day he inevitably has to break in.

Except now, as he makes eye contact with two of Frankenstein’s finest monsters without a gun or Leonid to guide him, he realizes this was a terrible idea.

He drops his phone like it’s hot coal and takes off down the nearby alleyway as Thing 1 bolts after him. There’s nothing to throw in the pathway of his chaser this time so Dick just runs and runs.

It’s only once he’s burst out of the alleyway and into the “street” that having this restaurant as a base of operations makes sense. In the middle of a shipping district with nothing but empty warehouses. They could walk their victims out in broad daylight without risk. And Dick’s got no quick means of escape this time, and no gun.

Damn.

He bolts to the left, running along the side of the warehouse that borders the back of restaurant. He hears the shouts of Thing 1 behind him telling him to stop. Yeah, as if. Why does _everyone_ try that?

Dick can practically feel the breath of Thing 1 on his neck and he must hold back a nervous laugh of hysteria. Of course he’s going to get outrun by some human-beast that’s probably on performance enhancing drugs. And he decided to run on flat ground like an idiot.

Veering sharply, he ducks into the wide-open back entrance of a warehouse full of pallet boxes to shake off Thing 1. They’re lined up in parallel rows with narrow paths to walk in between. It’s a tight squeeze for even Dick, but hopefully it’ll be enough to slow down Thing 1. He could be running in circles for all he cares, so long as he puts distance between the two of them.

He catches a break, finally, near out of breath when he spots a pallet board leaning against the beginning of a new row. Dick picks up the pace just enough so he has time to stop, grab the board, and throw it down so it falls back against the end of another long line of stacked boxes, cutting Thing 1 off.

It’s a momentary inconvenience, but Dick runs and runs. Turning left the moment he gets the next break in the line of boards and runs up the row and before turning left again. He ducks behind the wall of boards, hands on his knees as he quietly catches his breath. He can hear the footfalls of Thing 1, but instead of running up the rows he runs down towards the opposite end of the warehouse. Dick takes his cue to move.

Back to the entrance where they first came in, weaving out of the rows just to make sure he isn’t at risk of running into Thing 1. Dick listens carefully to his footfalls, making sure they hit the tips of his toes and that they land lightly. He doesn’t need to be utterly silent, just quiet enough.

Dick exits the warehouse and breathes a sigh of relief when he doesn’t see Thing 2 waiting for him. He turns around and continues running alongside of the pallet box warehouse from Hell, not even peeking around the rows to see of Thing 1 is lying in wait for him.

He clears it to the other side of the warehouse without much of an issue. He’s escaping by the skin on his teeth.

Panting, he jogs down the alley between the two warehouses, back toward the main road. He’ll find a payphone and call a cab. Fuck his cellphone, he isn’t going to risk his ass getting it back.

Dick winces in pain when he feels a stitch flare up in his chest. He slows down to a walking pace, clutching at his side, when he hears the tapping feet behind him.

_Oh, eat my entire ass, world._

It might as well be a gunshot, because Dick takes off like a bat out of hell, racing toward the main road. He breaks out past the buildings and onto the sidewalk with the intention of bolting across the street when an unmarked Mercedes van skids to a halt in front of him.

Dick barely gets a look at the driver before the back doors are thrown open and a huge woman, taller than he is, steps out of the back, dressed in a crisp black suit.

Yeah, no thanks. He’ll catch the next one.

He stumbles away from the van and into a solid body behind him. Shit. A hand holding something soaked in something that smells sweet— _chloroform, how cliché can these guys be_ —slaps wetly over his mouth. An arm wraps around him, pinning his arms to his sides, and holds him close against the mass of muscle that shouldn’t even be called a human behind him. Dick knows that the chloroform isn’t potent enough to knock him unconscious immediately, but whatever they have in the van might.

Or it could kill him.

He doesn’t bother screaming behind the cloth as he struggles, kicking his feet to take out the man’s knees. He bites into the cloth, trying to catch the man’s fingers to chomp down on, but swallows some of the disgusting chemical by mistake. When he gets close to possibly pinching them with his teeth, the man squeezes the arm holding his chest so tightly Dick wheezes in pain. The man pulls his fingers away and steps off the sidewalk directly in front of the open back of the van.

Shit, shit, shit, not good. If he gets in that van, he’s as good as dead.

The woman in the back of the van reaches forward to take him from Thing 1 and Dick lifts his legs, placing them against the bumper to push himself back. There’s a moment of resistance where Thing 1 grunts and freezes up, not able to move forward, and Dick thinks he’s got it. Just has to hold this position until someone on the street tries to stop them.

And then the woman reaches forward, grabs his legs and lifts them up with no effort. He’s in the back of the van instantly and watches the doors shut behind him in horror as the two jacked up human trafficking foot soldiers hold him down. A smaller man he didn’t even notice at first gets up and walks over to them. The new man is wearing a suit, dark blue and satin, with shoes so polished they could blind someone. He kneels besides Dick and rests a hand against his neck.

There’s also this dumb baby blue tie that is so distracting Dick stops fighting and the men finally pin him. Completely immobilized, reactions already sluggish from the exposure to the sickeningly sweet chloroform rag he can do nothing.

The man presses into his neck a little harder, hitting that damn pressure point, and Dick’s vision goes white.

Being unconscious, Dick has come to discover, is nothing like the movies. He’s not out cold for hours on end until someone dumps a bucket of water on him to snap him awake. He floats in a blurry state of semi consciousness, not able to see anything from the impossibility of opening his heavy eyelids. He cannot make out what language the voices that trickle into the white fuzz in his head are, let alone what they’re saying.

Now and then he catches a particularly clear word, but he's not able translate it in his head correctly. He hears the phrase “ _kak vas zovut_ ” and drools into the disgusting floor of the van, mumbling “Cheese.” He doesn’t know what possess him to say that, but he does and is pleased with himself for saying something at all.

He can feel someone tug him up into a sitting position and move his arms behind his back. He puts up something akin to a fight, if fighting counted as drunkenly rolling his shoulders as his head swings from side to side, far too heavy to hold up. Eventually, something tight clicks around his wrists and his ankles, and the far-off part of his mind supplies the answer “handcuffs,” but this Dick thinks, “ _Someone’s breaking a glow-stick_.”

Before he can even begin to think of why a group of kidnappers would be going to a rave with two victims in their van, there’s someone going through his pockets.

Distantly, in the far-off recesses of his mind, coherent Dick sits awake, panicking. While he’s smart enough to have brought his dummy identity wallet with him with a driver’s license that identifies him as Andrei Ledovskoy, there is also his Russian police badge. As some random bystander who just happen to stumble across a kidnapping, he had more of a chance. A chance to be set aside and have a decision made on what was to be done with him, whether it was to be murdered or integrated into the whole human trafficking ring itself as a piece of merchandise.

As a cop, he doesn’t get the luxury.

Death is the most probable outcome. And nothing like Hollywood movie deaths where the bad guys take him to their lair, probably hook him up to some laser table that takes an hour to move an inch. No. If he’s lucky they’ll drive out some place quiet and shoot him where he has more of a chance to wake up and make a break for it. If he isn’t so lucky, they’ll strangle him in the back of the van now and dump his body somewhere when it’s convenient.

He doesn’t like gambling with those odds.

And, just as expected, the moment the group stumbles across what he assumes must be his police badge the voices turn to whispers. That’s not good. But Dick has one last line of defense, that possibly means devastation for the whole case, but fuck it. Dick’s too concerned with saving his own skin to care if the case becomes near impossible to solve by buying a few hours.

He starts talking, or at least attempting to talk, grumbling out every English word that comes to his head in a delirious rush to save his ass. He’s certain he repeats the name “George Washington” eight times. He continues because even though the meatheads that have been sent out to do the collection work are possibly as dumb as a sack of rocks, something’s got to seem odd when their Russian born detained cop spouts off English in a delirious state rather than his “mother tongue.”

He hears a far-off laugh, the rumble of the car engine, and the whispers of street traffic. Other than that, the chatting voices mostly go completely silent. Dick can’t tell if that’s good or bad, but the van keeps driving and driving. It gives him time to wake up and be ready for an escape attempt when it comes.

Except he does the opposite.

Chloroform-pressure-point-Bruce-Lee-hit-drunk Dick is ultimately stronger than conscious-I-don’t-want-to-die-yet Dick. He knows this because one second he’s listening to the sounds of the car, mumbling nonsensical English into the short, dirty carpet of the back of the van with a foggy head, and the next he’s jolted awake against cold stone and painfully aware of the throbbing in his head.

He’s lucky. Most of the time falling asleep in the hands of an enemy means, “You’re never going to wake up again, son.”

Eyes snapping open, he subsequently gets blinded by a flashlight aimed directly at his face. He shuts his eyes quickly with a pained hiss, cracking them open so they can adjust.

He can’t see much of the room with the asshole pointing the beam right into his face like some clever jerkwad, only catching glimpses from the corners of his eyes.

They’re in a cellar, that much he can determine by the gray stone walls and brick floors with overhanging rows of intertwining pipes above them. He’s cold, Dick realizes with a shudder, when he feels the chilly floor stones press up against his naked shoulder. That’s the next thing that catches his attention. His shirt and overcoat—a nice one made of leather and wool—are gone, along with his shoes and socks. He’d comment on the oddity of the missing socks and shoes if he were any more naive.

He knows why they’re gone.

Also that his attempt to save his life by offering a contradiction to his Russian alias must have worked. Or at least something about his demeanor must have struck his kidnappers as odd.

He’s grateful he still has his pants though, which means they aren’t going to go to James-Bond-played-by-Daniel-Craig-in-the-rebooted-Casino-Royale extreme. However, Dick knows they can still do plenty of very painful things barring putting him in a chair with the bottom cut out.

Tilting his head away from the flashlight, he glances up at the ceiling, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness of the cellar.

There are two distinct voices grumbling a few steps away in what Dick assumes is Italian. He bites back a groan, because if there are guys speaking a language other than Russian, that means this ring of human traders has already shoved its dirty paws into the rest of Europe and possibly Asia. _Great._

Asshole-with-a-flashlight takes a step back and away from him, thank _fuck_ , so Dick finally chances a look down to get a better picture of his surroundings.

There are five guys, fortunately all considerably less massive than his original kidnappers. Unfortunately, that means these aren’t hired muscle anymore, they’re family members, which makes everything a lot more complicated. While Dick would have trouble getting past steroid-using weightlifters like Things 1 and 2, the torture they would inflict on him would be almost completely centered around him being a human punching bag.

These bastards, who look like they make up the average male population of a country club, aren’t like that. Dick could still escape after being punched to hell and back; he doubts he could after having his legs broken and tits shocked off by a car battery. That’s what these guys are like. Evil assholes who unleash their creativity through torture. He knows their type well enough.

The men are wearing pressed suits, like all men like them do, with shoes looking recently waxed. _Expensive bastards._ They’re also all wearing sunglasses over these caricature masks that remind Dick of the Purge. _Expensive, unoriginal bastards._

He wonders if they’ve even seen the masterpiece that is _The Purge: Anarchy_ and wonders if that’s where they got their idea to buy and sell people. Except instead of killing people—maybe sometimes killing—it’s for sex instead.

_That’s a little too far, Dick, reel it in._

He takes his focus off the men and back onto himself. He doesn’t feel any worse for the wear aside from the headache that’s pounding in his skull. Easy enough to ignore with the cool stone pressing against his forehead. His back, thankfully, is turned away from the men, so they don’t notice when moves his wrists around and takes his left hand into his right. Probably too busy talking about golf to notice.

Sliding his index and right thumb over his left slowly, he tunes into the conversation to try and take his mind off what he’s about to do next.

He barely knows any Italian—he carefully rubs the small section of skin that connects his thumb to the meat of his hand—but he hears the word for “party” and “midnight” repeated several times. He files away that detail for later—he slowly begins to rotate his left thumb around—along with the markedly conversational tone of his keepers—he slides his fingers up to the knuckle and moves it back and forth. The men are cocky, the blasé attitude about the whole affair including the sound of their voices gives enough away. So, they’re dealing with professionals. Not that Dick had expected amateur work, of course; only people who have been in the business long enough would have could keep a low profile for so long.

It was most likely an over-inflated ego that led them to hire a driver so incompetent he’d give them away the moment he was brought into police custody. That’s more than troublesome. They’ve probably been in this ring for at least five years, minimum, rather than the two years they had centered the case around. That reeks bad implications, starting with the fact that the ring is probably well extended beyond Russia at this point. Hell, with these men speaking _Italian_ , Russia may not have even been the point of origin of the crime ring. Just the largest exporter.

Dick sets the information aside; he has to escape before he thinks about what to put in his report.

He chances a glance at the men. They’re still engrossed in their conversation, sharing a charming laugh or two, content with having him wait. Of course these pompous assholes would make their torture victim wait for torture.

There’s a small thought in the back of his mind that these men may not have brought him here for torture. It’s a fleeting and unnecessarily hopeful thought, considering the lack of instruments in the room—which could always be brought in later or be somewhere behind him where he hasn’t checked—but he knows that an average man doesn’t need any sort of tool to inflict bodily harm when they have their hands.

Besides, Dick’s seen what the holding pens for newly abducted property look like, cramped and full of wooden boxes shaped like coffins, just large enough for a wrapped up human to be stuffed in for transport. His current room is way too spacious. He’s got to get out.

Dick takes a breath as he stops fiddling with his thumb. _One._

He turns his head to the side so his face is pressed halfway against the ground and sucks in a breath. _Two._

And pushes his left thumb so hard he can hear a soft crack as he dislocates it. _Threeeeee owowow._

He barely exhales, breath escaping his throat in a choked noise that turns into a pitched whine before he bites down so hard on his lip he nearly makes a hole. There’s the prickling of tears in his eyes from the pain— _who the hell can do this with a straight face, dammit Hollywood, another lie yet again_ —and turns his head further into the ground to spit out a glob of fresh blood.

His mouth tastes coppery, as expected, sending waves of nausea through him from his already poor state. At least his head doesn’t hurt so bad anymore.

Blinking back the tears, he cradles his left thumb in the same hand’s fingers before tilting his head back up. Dick gently begins to pull his hand through the handcuffs to test it. He sucks in a shaky breath as his self-inflicted injury presses against the metal before stopping. It’ll be a tight squeeze, but it’ll work.

Now all he has to do is wait for the right opening.

The men are quiet.

Dick doesn’t know when the conversation ended, could have been when he dislocated his thumb, just that the talking’s stopped. He hopes not. It’d suck if all that pain he went through was for nothing.

They’re looking at him now, or at least they’ve all turned to face him; he can’t tell where their eyes are through the masks and sunglasses. Dick scowls as he glances between the five of them and tries to decide who to address first.

“Who are you?” he asks in Russian. He keeps his eyes trained on the third, middle man. Seems like the most logical. They don’t say anything. Feels a little  _Saw-esque_. But they haven’t told him to shut up, so he won’t.

“What do you want?” he tries instead. Despite the fact they must have obviously stumbled across his fake identity of a Russian cop, he’ll continue to play dumb. Anything to buy him time. The life of a spy, it seems, is to do nothing but buy more and more time.

“Do you know who we are?” one of them, the man on the far right, says finally. More importantly, he asks in Russian. Dick hopes it’s because his kidnappers omitted the fact that he spoke in English in the car, not that any of that matters to him now. All he can do is roll with it.

Dick’s an excellent actor.

“No,” he answers. The first man sighs and mumbles in Italian. Dick thinks he says something like, “No easy job.”

The third man proceeds to turn sharply on his heel and exit through the open doorway, up a flight of stairs that Dick sees more clearly now that he’s out of the way.

The rest of the four stand there and stare. An intimidation tactic? Maybe Dick read them wrong. Men like them are normally a lot more, how should he put this, _educated_ in the acts of torture.

He supposes Number Three is getting their supplies. He looks at the others’ masks. They’re all wearing the same cartoon-comic-style BDSM face masks. How ironic. They can’t even get straight proper torturer-torturee attire.

Then he hears a door slam open behind him, and fuck, Dick should have rolled over to investigate earlier.

Someone with smooth, delicate hands grabs him by the arms and hauls him to his feet. Dick’s still incredibly woozy, swaying lightly as they lift him up. He can’t help but groan a little when they let go of his arms to take his wrists, one hand pressing down against his tender thumb. They hold him there for a second and there’s a light click as his right hand comes free.

Oh, these _morons._

He lifts his leg up and slams his right foot down behind him onto the new guy’s foot before he whips his head back, cracking it against their forehead. Dick’s head pounds in agony from the blow, but he manages to rip his arms free from their now-distracted owner. He darts forward, the four other men spread out to grab him. He doesn’t waste time trying analyze a good route, shooting past two of the men who were further from the doorway until guy number two pivots and kicks him in the gut so hard and fast his leg might as well as been a whip.

He falls back and the unknown man—tall, with short blonde hair and a snarl that shows crooked teeth—who picked him up off the floor grabs him by throat, then lifts him up like a doll.

It was his mistake thinking escape could have been as easy as that.

Crooked Teeth drags him further into the cellar as Dick kicks his feet uselessly. He groans in protest when Crooked Teeth pulls his wrists together in front of him and cuffs them together again. It’s tighter this time, and Dick doubts that even with his limp thumb he can slip his wrist out.

He raises Dick’s arms way above his head, taking a moment to hang the chain between the cuffs onto something—a hook, maybe—and steps back. Dick’s toes are barely brushing the ground, his wrists pressing hard and painfully against the metal. He’s bound to bruise, maybe even bleed if he stays like this too long. He resists the sudden, rising urge to hiss as his dislocated thumb throbs uncomfortably from the pressure of the cuffs against it.

Dick can hear a door creaking open behind him and judges from the volume of the sound that he must be in the middle of the room or closer to the doorway in front of him from the back. There’s the squeak of wheels and the shifting of metal on cloth along with an assortment of other small muffles that Dick can’t accurately place. It stops a few steps behind him before the person who must have been pushing it out walks around him to join Crooked Teeth. The new member of their group is a man wearing a light grey suit with this ridiculous baby blue tie. He’s tense with his hands behind his back wearing a mask, different from the previous five men, that resembles a snarled open mouth of a tiger. That’s going to distract him the whole time.

That and his silly baby blue tie.

Tiger Mask turns to Crooked Teeth after a moment, removing one hand holding an identical tiger’s mask from behind his back. “You aren’t wearing your mask.”

Something in the back of Dick’s head perks up at the voice of the new man, who speaks in Russian, but nothing beyond a flash of interest. Dick’s eyes narrow slightly in suspicion but the feeling quickly vanishes as Crooked Teeth snatches the mask.

“He knocked it off,” Crooked Teeth huffs and slips the it back on. Dick’s heart leaps. If they’re concerned with wearing masks that means they may need him alive and aren’t risking him identifying them later. That or they’re extra-careful. Either way Dick feels some tension he hadn’t been aware of possessing slip away.

_They’re not going to kill me._

The two tiger-masked men step away from his side and move toward the door in the front of the room. They take their places on either side facing Dick, just as the third man from earlier reappears holding an object, a long pole that ends with the head of a two-bladed fork. Dick furrows his brows in confusion, failing to connect the dots until the man presses down on what must be a button on the pole and the forked end lights up with blue static.

_Ah, cattle prod. Lovely._

“We’re going to start slow,” Man Three, Black Mask—Dick decides—says with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I ask a question, you give me an answer, and we move on. Is that simple enough for you?”

“Simple enough,” Dick says. He keeps his Russian accent as thick and as natural as possible. He doubts his sarcasm is doing his life span any wonders, but the situation with the masks is giving him a slight boost of confidence. That he can risk stalling for a longer period when they are more desperate to keep him alive than if they were planning to get rid of him the moment it became too troublesome.

Dick assumes that Black Mask is giving him a bored look, not that he can tell beyond the mask. Un, Deux, Quatre and Cinq—as he’s appropriately named them—take a few steps forward in unison before pausing and turning to the side, facing each other, as if this was some knighting ceremony. It’s obvious Black Mask is the top dog here though, made even more apparent as he casually strolls down the center aisle created by the other four. His approach is lackadaisical, if Dick can use such a pompous word describe a slow walk, as he casually lifts the cattle prod to his face, inspecting the tip.

“I don’t want to spend my weekend here.” Black Mask sighs as he drops the prod back to his side. “I have plans. I do _not_ have time to make you more compliant.”

“Someone sounds a little lazy.”

The shock that comes is expected, but Dick can’t help the involuntary spasms, nor the shout that rips from his lips. The touch of the prod barely lasts a second, acting as just a taste of what’s going to come. Like an ice cream sample. Dick drops his head, twitching as his wrists burn from the intensity of the shock traveling up and into the metal amplifying it.

“Your sarcasm is noted.” Black Mask sighs again, as if Dick’s a naughty child with chocolate-smeared cheeks. “Do not make this hard for me.”

“If you’re getting hard from this, that’s all on you, bud,” Dick grits out. The joke’s lame, but he smiles anyway.

Smiles long enough for his face to scrunch up in pain as another shock, lasting at least two seconds this time, comes dangerously close to his unmentionables. Below the belt, indeed.

“Let’s try this again.” Black Mask pauses directly in front of him. Dick wets his lips. The cattle prod is far from pleasant, but the voltage is relatively weak. Holding it against his skin for a long amount of time will hurt and burn, but he isn’t at risk of his lungs seizing up, let alone his heart.

“Why were you at Vatrushka?” Black Mask asks, reaching the prod forward. Dick flinches away with a light intake of breath. Black Mask taps the thankfully-dead forked end against his cheek, trailing it beneath his eyes before letting it drop down. He can’t get a good read on Black Mask, but he’s starting very easy for such simple information. Dick has a lot of time if he can just suck it up.

“I love borscht,” he says.

Black Mask sighs again and jabs him in the chest with the electrified end long enough that Dick loses count of the seconds. It’s painful, _obviously_ , the shock making him clench his teeth hard enough he worries about cracking them. The shock itself, however, is second to the _melting_ of his skin at the point of contact. He feels himself trying to lean away from the prod only to swing into it further. It’s worse than touching an oven-hot metal pan.

When Black Mask pulls the prod away, Dick’s body goes limp. He feels his shoulders pop from the strain. He’s grateful for the rudimentary torture device, despite the sharp stinging pain that brings tears to his eyes. Panting, he tries to catch his breath quickly.

“Why were you at Vatrushka?” Black Mask sounds a little impatient this time.

Dick’s silent for a moment as he lifts his head up to look at Black Mask, eye-to-eye. “For the 5-star dining experience.”

The revenge shock that lands on the skin of his armpit is the equivalent of a bitch slap.

Dick stops offering witty responses and opts for silence after that. He can’t get his thick tongue to form words. He doesn’t know if that’s in response to the lack of them or because his mouth feels full of cotton when his cheeks aren’t stinging in misery. Can’t even remember how long Black Mask has been shocking him for. His mind checks out momentarily when he zaps him beneath his eye, eliciting a scream so bloodcurdlingly loud Dick’s surprised to the point of _terrified_ it’s coming from him.

The few tears that drip down his cheeks across the burns sting sharply, but offer a second of momentary, numb relief. Black Mask gives up asking the first question, settling on jabbing the cattle prod against areas of skin he thinks will hurt the most. He’s fond of the tender arches of Dick’s feet for the howl he gets in return. The acidic, charcoal smell of burning flesh from the length of time Black Mask shocks him hangs in the cellar as its own putrid perfume. Dick nearly vomits on two separate occasions. The cloth that separates his dick from the shock is enough that the excruciating pain that comes when Black Mask finally shoves the prod against it doesn’t earn the same response from the bare skin areas. Dick’s thankful his dick is left alone after that.

Dick makes a rookie mistake and allows himself to lose track of time and mentally check out.

It’s by no means intentional. Dick’s unaware of the pause in torture when Black Mask tires of the prod. He forgoes it, moving around behind Dick to grab a pair of pliers. Dick re-focuses into awareness rather than mute impassivity when he hears a drawer open and shut behind him. He feels his stomach drop when he sees the dirty, yellow handle of the needle-nosed tool and shuts his eyes, focusing on his breathing instead.

“Why were you at Vatrushka?” Black Mask demands. Dick stays quiet. He hears the rustle of fabric as Black Mask kneels and grabs his sore right foot. Dick jerks involuntarily away from the grip as the Black Mask digs his thumb into the welting skin and grabs his big toe’s nail with the pliers.

The scream is nothing. Just an exhale of air as he digs his nails so hard into his palm his feels the beginnings of blood drip out and onto his fingertips. Dick can’t help it and brings his free leg up and slams it against Black Mask’s head, sending him careening back from the sheer impulsiveness of the move as Dick chokes over his now-missing toenail. The pliers tear free from his hand and skid across the damp brick floor before coming to a halt far away from them.

He barely watches Un and Deux immediately drop down to see if Black Mask is alright, too busy trying to catch his breath. There’s a heartbeat in his foot, like there was in his cheek, and in his feet as he carefully keeps right foot hanging off the ground. The cool air of the cellar feels odd and disgusting against the wrinkly, exposed under-skin and Dick shakes his foot, trying to shake the pain off.

Black Mask rises from the ground without the help of his two masked aids, shoving away their hands as he picks himself up off the floor. He lets out a sigh, barely audible beneath Dick’s own ragged panting, and brushes himself off. The pliers are left in the far-off corner of the room as Black Mask steps back in front of Dick, reaching up to grip his own jaw, now slightly exposed, to move it around. Dick catches milky white skin with the hint of blackish stubble before Black Mask pulls the mask back into place.

Black Mask’s eyes, now visible from the lack of sunglasses that Dick hadn’t realized had flown off too, are intense and a livid green. Dick’s pinned beneath his gaze like a moth in a display case filling him with a rising, desperate urge to back the fuck up before Black Mask reaches forward with a black gloved hand and cradles Dick’s aching cheek.

“You should not have done that.” Black Mask’s voice is low and menacing.

Dick berates himself mentally for being such an idiot. Violence against your kidnapper never works unless you’re in a situation to continue it or flee quickly. At least the increase in torture from sarcastic responses is slow. Black Mask could go from pulling out toenails to waterboarding from Dick’s small act of rebelliousness.

Dick looks away, turning his attention to the distant comical hue of the tiger-masked man’s baby blue tie.

Black Mask removes his hand. Dick’s grateful for it.

“This was a good warm up, yeah?” Black Mask muses, turning his head to look at the other men in the cellar. When he glances back at Dick, the anger in his eyes has slipped away with only a vicious, animalistic glee remaining. Dick knows without out a doubt in that moment that these monsters could trade human lives as easily as livestock. “I think we can move on now.”

* * *

Dick doesn’t want to wake up for a whole year.

But he does anyway, in the darkness of the cellar filled with his own wet wheezing, hands rattling against the pipes violently from his freezing body. He hears the low, stuttering groan of some animal echoing distantly and doesn’t realize it’s him until a sharp twinge of pain in his chest chokes off the noise. He can feel every inch of his body, over-sensitive from lingering adrenaline that catalogues every source of pain from the hole where his far right back molar used to be to the excruciating throb of several cracked ribs. He doesn’t even want to know what his face looks like.

His head is nearly indescribable. It hurts on an entirely new level. Deep, stabbing jolts travel down his back, making him woozy and incredibly nauseous. He doesn’t remember when he fell unconscious. One second he felt the slap of a knotted, thick rope against his head, and then total darkness.

He picks up the soft and quiet taps of a leather shoes across the cellar and squints into the inky blackness, trying to decipher any bodies. Fuck, why couldn’t they keep the lights on?

The footsteps get closer before pausing directly in front of him. There’s a soft voice, barely audible as it whispers. “Are you able?”

Dick feels his mouth settle into a thin line, blinking in confusion. He has half a mind to lie in hopes they leave him alone, but nods a tad regretfully at the question. The sooner this new round is over with, the sooner he can fall back into numb semi-consciousness.

The man reaches up and brushes against his wrists, bloody and raw, making Dick hiss.

“Sorry,” the voice mutters gently. There’s a click and Dick’s wrists fall free. He tumbles forward, having no energy to catch himself until a pair of arms grab him. However, Dick, being as useful and imposing as a dead weight, causes them both to fall to the ground.

Dick groans lightly, groping around with his hands as he clutches at the mysterious man’s arms. He comes to a startling realization when he feels the puff of hot breath against his cheek that despite the darkness of the room that he should see the new man’s body so close to his face. His eyes have been open and aware for a fair amount of time now; they should be used to the darkness. And now that Dick thinks about it, the “darkness” that envelops his eyesight isn’t completely black like a dark room, but a dull, brownish red.

“I can’t see,” Dick chokes out. He digs his nails tightly into his possible savior’s clothed arms. He forces himself to close his eyes near hysterically as he tries to “blink away” the blindness.

A hand with strong fingers takes his jaw considerately, tilting his head side to side. “Temporary blindness from the blow to the back of your head isn’t uncommon,” the voice says, soft and gentle. “I can’t make a diagnosis without my equipment. More reason for us to leave immediately.”

Dick reaches forward, laying his hand flat against his new companion’s face. What greets him instead is plastic and the odd shape of something protruding forward with small curves. A mask of course, but it isn’t until Dick moves his fingers up and feels the large spirals at the top does he realize it’s the tiger mask.

“Who are you?” Dick asks.

“Someone who is very keen on making sure you stay alive,” the man says, and Dick can’t believe this motherfucker is going Leia on his now Han Solo ass. He drops his hand and reaches down to the floor. “We can clarify the details when we leave.”

“Where are we exactly?” Dick asks, shakily trying to push himself up before he falls back with a low whine of discomfort. His unknown friend places a firm and stable, but overall careful, hand on his lower back.

“You really don’t know, do you?” the man says with a hint of surprise. “We’re in Tula, Roman Sionis’ grand estate.”

“I can’t walk,” Dick adds quickly and realizes they’ve been speaking in English the entire time. He hopes this man is a mole. The voice is lighting up in Dick’s head as something recognizable but unclear. His head hurts, though, so he’ll save the questions for later. “I can’t fight, either.”

“I assumed as much,” the man huffs. He removes his hand from Dick’s chin, letting it slide beneath his knees before he shifts Dick against his chest and lifts him up. There’s a moment of unsteadiness as the man wobbles on shaky feet before he starts walking straight, toward the back of the room. Dick takes a moment to pull his feet closer and wrap his arms loosely around the man’s neck.

“What’s your name?” Dick whispers before he can help himself.

There’s a moment of silence. “We need to be quiet.”

“Is that your way of telling me you’re never going to answer that?” Dick smiles. There’s a long sigh in response.

“I’m shocked that even with your dignity gone and nearly your life as well, you still manage to be annoyingly sassy.”

“Some find it endearing.”

Dick falls quiet anyway, trying of put all his energy into listening and staying awake instead. He can hear the taps of his friend’s feet echo off the stone walls as he makes his way slowly down the hall. Dick can feel the caress of cold air on his cheeks faintly coming from somewhere in front of him. While he doubts walking into the area behind the cellar is the way to the front door, the lack of voices, miscellaneous movement, or other people’s presences is weird. There should be at least one patrol down here at the bare minimum. Dick considers asking about it, but doesn’t want to make their situation any more dangerous than it already is.

He doesn’t know the map of the estate and his eyesight makes it worse. The name is a good enough lead though, even if he’s been given a false one. He just hopes he’s alive enough to get the little information he has to Leonid at best, or to the nearest police station at worst.

Dick takes a moment to think over what he knows of his “friend.” He’s stronger than Dick at his best and taller too. He tries to think back to his friend when he could see. The baby blue tie comes to mind, as well as the well fitted gray suit. He had a slim build, and from what he could see from the small slip of skin where the sleeves stopped and the gloves began, he was dark.

Wait.

The utterly dumb and ridiculous baby blue tie is the nail in the coffin. _Scar._

He can’t help the hand that moves up from his shoulder, carefully, before it rests against the side of his neck under his ear. Scar doesn’t stop, which earns him brownie points, but there’s a slight pause in his step.

“What do you think you’re doing.” Scar voice is level and barely above a whisper. Dick doesn’t exactly know what he’s doing, Scar is still his best shot out of here until he can find yet another way to escape.

“You tell me,” Dick asks quietly. He prods the pressure point lightly enough to make Scar’s grip on him stutter.

“You’re going to get us caught and then you’ll have no chance of escaping,” Scar hisses as he takes a moment to readjust his grip. Dick groans a little at the jostling and the wave of fresh aches and pains that rush through him, past the morphine-equivalent adrenaline in his system.

“How are you able to get us out now? Very convenient. How do I know you haven’t gotten rid of everyone here already?” Dick asks.

“Do you honestly think a one-man team could take out an entire estate full?” Scar snaps.

“You tell me.”

“This is ridiculous. I’m obviously trying to help you escape.” Scar stops walking. Dick can hear the distant chatter of Italian. He doesn’t recognize the voices, thankfully, which means it could just be idiot foot soldiers. Still, Scar is going to stay put until Dick shuts up. Good, gives them a minute to talk.

“Where are we now?” The question serves no purpose other than a question of trust, something simple. Since Scar won’t give him any further information, like his damn name, Dick will settle for a small example of honesty. Be willing to describe their surroundings honestly.

There’s a huff of annoyance. “We’re at the exit of the back entrance to the cellar. There’s a short flight of stairs up that opens out into the back yard. The backyard itself is several acres long including horse stables, a garden, and a mostly private lake. It’s patrolled around the clock by numerous guard patrols and we will be walking right by them.”

It’s more than Dick could have asked for. “How are you going to get by them? I don’t think I look spectacular right now.”

“Of course not.” Scar sounds amused that Dick could have suggested otherwise. “You look like you’re on death’s door. That’s how we’re going to get you out.”

“By saying I need medical attention?”

“No, you moron,” Scar tuts, irritated. “You’re dead, I’m just taking care of the body.”

“And they’ll just let you do that without checking.” Dick makes sure to raise his eyebrows in disbelief mockingly. “Just let you walk right on out when they know they have a prisoner to watch.”

“They won’t if they know what’s good for them.” Oddly, Dick hears Leonid’s “do not use pee-stol” warning from four days ago in his head. He wonders if he should tell Scar about Leonid’s advice.

Dick feels two hands pressing against his cheek and he jolts, bumping his head against a wall behind him. He lets out a gasp in pain at the hit before the hands pull his head away.

“Hey, hey, Dick,” Scar’s voice his gentle and soothing. Dick takes a moment to gather his thoughts, realizing he’s sitting on the cold stone floor rather than being carried any more. “Are you with me? Dick?”

“I’m here, I’m here,” Dick slurs out, slumping against the wall as he waves Scar away. He feels Scar take the skin around his eyes lightly and pull, making Dick groan in annoyance.

“We need to get going. Do me a favor and keep your eyes shut and keep your body as stiff as possible.” Scar instructs him quickly, sneaking his arms around Dick’s back.

“Why do I have to stay stiff?” Dick mumbles, as Scar slowly bends Dick at the waist, easing his upper body over his shoulder. Scar then stands and Dick jumps into sudden awareness at the constriction in his chest that makes it impossible to breathe.

“Scar, Scar! Put me down, put me down!” Dick nearly shouts, shoving his hands against Scar’s back as he tries to push himself forward to get rid of the pressure against his rib cage.

“Dick!” Scar wraps an arm tightly around his waist, keeping him pinned on his shoulder until Dick finally falls back when his arms give out. Dick pants shallowly, near hyperventilating as he can’t get a deep and low enough breath.

“Stop, stop,” Scar keeps his voice level and calm to settle him down. “Stop breathing so quickly. Slow it down or you’re going to pass out.”

“I can’t breathe,” Dick chokes out, scratching at Scar’s back and gripping the fabric tightly. “Put me down, I can’t breathe like this!”

He feels like he’s suffocating. He’s going to die in the cellar of some murder mansion because Scar is a dumbass who can’t understand the phrase “I can’t breathe.”

“Yes, you can,” Scar says carefully, the same way a parent would. “This angle is irritating your ribs. You can breathe like this, you just have to do it slowly.”

Dick tries for a second, carefully taking in a deep and controlled breath, but it turns into panic when he starts gagging on air as his chest seizes up and he slams his fists against Scar’s back.

“Put me down, please!” The words aren’t even out of his mouth before Scar starts slowly lowering him to the floor despite Dick punching his back with whatever strength his adrenaline-fueled body will give him.

He sucks in a breath the moment his back hits the wall, gasping with a violent sob. Dick doesn’t realize he’s crying, nearly full-blown wailing, until he hears Scar attempting to hush him. Dick reaches up towards his face, rubbing his eyes quickly as he tries to wipe away tears that just won’t stop coming. He feels embarrassed and ashamed, but more importantly small and distressingly vulnerable in the hands of a man who has been haunting him for so long it fills Dick with unease and suspicion. It’s humiliating.

“I’m sorry,” Dick manages to choke out for no other reason than to attempt to gain some dignity back. Dick doesn’t blame himself for not being able to follow Scar’s advice as the trust between the two of them is nonexistent.

“It’s fine,” Scar assures him. Dick feels two hands rest on his shoulders and give him a slight and comforting squeeze. “It was idiotic of me to assume you’d be able to stay in that position with the damage done to your chest. I apologize.”

“We can try again,” Dick says. He understands the position will be easier to sneak past the guards in when they can’t see his face. He can force himself to calm down.

“No, no, that’s alright.” It’s definitely not alright, but Scar continues. “You’re fading in and out of consciousness from a probable cerebral contusion. Fainting because you’re hyperventilating from pain will only make your injury worse. You’re also borderline hysterical, not that that’s unexpected from the last 13 hours you’ve been in Roman's custody. I’m surprised you’re coherent enough to hold a conversation and recognize me after all of that.”

“Well,” Dick laughs with a subtle yet noticeable edge of desperation. “You are hard to forget.”

Dick can almost feel Scar rolling his eyes with the dramatic exhale of breath. Scar’s hands slide down his shoulders before one slips behind his back and the other moves beneath his knees. He rises to his feet carefully, keeping Dick steady in his arms. Dick allows himself to go stiff and limp, lying awkwardly in Scar’s arms with his head back like the Pietà. Dick keeps his eyes closed, relaxing the muscles in his eyelids to look natural enough.

Scar takes a moment to gather himself, taking in a deep and comforting breath before he finally starts moving again.

The trip up the cellar stairs to the backyard is slow. Dick’s feet and head brush against the tight walls of the stairwell making him work hard to keep his face neutral. His body is a million and one tiny frayed wires charged with electricity read to send out warning shocks the moment they encounter anything.

The cool evening air chills Dick’s blood-soaked and nearly naked body. It’s hard to suppress the shudder for warmth that travels up his toes and back before settling in the tips of his ears. Dick can hear the far-off sound of water lapping against the sore with steady and serene waves. There’s also the rustling of leaves from the mostly quiet breeze that licks at his cheek and blows the loose strands of hair off his face.

He can hear the chatter of Italian from a man and a woman far to his left side—closer to the sound of the lake—as Scar begins walking to the right.

Dick can also hear the light crunch of decorative pathway gravel beneath the soles of Scar’s shoes. It’s mostly muffled as he walks, Scar going slowly due to the awkwardness of having to carry Dick’s faux-dead body. There’s the distant, un-imposed cadence of someone patrolling in front of them. Scar continues his approach, remaining aloof and confident.

They make it past the first pair of patrolling footsteps without a fuss. Scar speaks loudly to the guard they pass in Italian—which Dick roughly translates to mean “clean”—who answers back in a clipped tone.

The two of them continue.

Dick focuses on his breathing, keeping it slow and shallow so that the rise and fall of his chest is not prominent to the guards they encounter along their escape. The dimness of early dusk helps them, obscuring the guards’ vision just enough so that a quick glance at Dick won’t be cause for suspicion. That’s, of course, barring the entire situation of Scar just walking around with a “dead body” in his arms.

Now that Dick thinks about it, even if Roman’s estate has acres of property before their nearest neighbor, traversing about with Dick out in the open looking the equivalent of a raw human hamburger isn’t intelligent. Forget about inconspicuous. While there is a lot that Dick is willing to pass off as lower-level ground worker ignorance and stupidity, the thought that any of the patrolling teams think this is okay is ludicrous.

He doesn’t risk calling Scar out right here, while they’re trying to sneak out from this hell house, but the sheer convenience of their getaway fills Dick’s stomach with dread.

Dick quietly counts his injures. Escaping on foot is near impossible with how mangled they are. Bloody toes missing their nails with the soles of his feet singed from electric shocks and hot metal make sure that idea is shoved away. Crawling is possible, but with his dislocated thumb and sore forearms the process will be nothing less than agonizing. Survival doesn’t care, however, if you have a few boo-boos.

That still leaves the matter of his missing vision.

Dick sucks in a breath when Scar halts sharply. There’s a voice shouting behind them, angry and loud enough to capture the attention of any nearby guards. Scar can’t get very far in a sprint holding something as heavy as Dick. They’ll have to wait until they’re let go.

That, or Scar takes out every guard in the vicinity.

Scar turns around to face the approaching guard. His voice is light, a tad tired, but steady as he answers in well-practiced Italian. “ _Yes?_ ”

The guard’s voice is accusatory. Dick’s throat feels dry and he has the sudden urge to swallow. He doesn’t, instead holding his breath in short bursts to keep his chest from moving too frequently.

Scar retorts. There’s a small condescending tilt in his voice, a “this conversation is a waste of time” sort of vibe.

The guard snarls.

Scar responds coolly.

Dick resists the urge to perk up when he recognizes the word Ostia. Just how far does this rabbit hole go, exactly?

There’s a beat in the conversation. Dick tenses, muscles coiling up like springs ready to bolt for however long and however far he can if this goes sour. The guard lowers his voice.

Beads of sweat drip down Dick’s back, forming across his brow as he tries to resist opening his eyes. The conversation is taking too long and the guard doesn’t seem convinced by whatever Scar’s saying, based on his tone. They could be six ways to fucked right now and Dick would be none the wiser. He remembers laughing when Leonid told him to try and learn the languages of all the Balkan countries. There were too many, he had insisted. What an idiot he’d been.

Scar is turning around before he finishes his sentence and Dick does everything in his power to keep from startling. His steps are confident, despite the weak bend in the knees, as he marches away from the unknown guard. Dick forces a breath of relief through his teeth when he hears the footsteps of the other man walk in the opposite direction.

They’re getting out of here. He can focus on his escape from Scar once they’re alone. He doesn’t want to spend too much time in Scar’s “care,” or whatever this is. He’s grateful for the rescue, sure, but for the first time, he doesn’t want to stick around and find out _why._

Scar stops before whispering, “Sorry.”

Then he drops him. Dick barely has time to react, but thankfully the warning gives him just enough time to stifle any noises or movements. The pain that comes when he hits the ground strikes him like lightning, electrifying him so badly that stars light up his temporary blindness. He fights the urge to curl up, or at least arch his bloody back away from the dirt and rocks grinding into his open wounds.

He barely hears the jingle of keys and a responding chirp from a car as it’s unlocked. Then there’s the quiet whoosh of a trunk door swinging open when Scar grabs him again.

Dick does his best to keep stiff and dead, certainly not trying to pull away from the rough and harsh touch of Scar as he pulls him up and hauls him into the trunk. Dick’s upper body lands on the rough plastic before it scraps forward as Scar shoves his lower body in.

He can’t help the choke that escapes his lips at the aggravation of his cracked ribs and burns. Dick can feel saltwater drip down his cheeks and into his mouth, adding to the disgusting mixture of stale sleep breath and dried blood. He holds as still as he can, sucking in sharp breaths as he tries to settle himself down until the trunk closes. The moment Dick hears the click of the door shutting, he gasps loudly, scratching at the plastic as he digs his remaining nails in, riding out the waves of pain.

He hears the sound of the driver’s door opening like it’s miles off. Woozily, he tries to lift his chest off the floor.

“Lay down, you idiot,” Scar snaps, voice shaking as he starts up the car. His voice is close, unmuffled, so Dick guesses he’s in some sort of SUV where the trunk is part of the interior. Back seat down, probably, if Tiger can see him in the rearview. He whines in discomfort as he eases his body back down, turning so that he’s lying on his back with the pressure off his cracked ribs.

He can’t help but close his eyes in relief at the sound of Scar’s voice. For a quick moment, the fleeting thought of Scar putting him in the car of another guard of Roman’s enters his mind. At least Scar will be seeing him to wherever the next point in this adventure takes him. That's somewhat comforting.

He remains silent, focusing on the relaxing of his muscles and the easing of the pain from his aching body, irritated by the rough yet performative treatment Scar gave him. Scar is silent for the first few minutes of the drive, refusing to make so much as a loud or relieved sigh. Dick doesn’t mind. The slow turns of the car turn the sharp pounding in his head to soft, rhythmic waves. The engine of the car similarly gives him a decent background noise to listen to.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Scar says. Dick’s eyes snap open. Fuck. He’s bad at this.

“I wasn’t,” Dick lies as he looks up toward the trunk’s ceiling.

“Right,” Scar agrees, disbelief evident in the tone of his voice. “You have a contusion; you need to stay awake until I can get a better look at you.”

“Don’t you mean concussion?” Dick asks, moving his arms so they can rest beneath his head. He lets out a yelp of pain when his thumb aches suddenly and he pulls his hand back like he’s been stung.

“A contusion is worse than a concussion,” Scar continues. “I’m assuming you just remembered the thumb you dislocated earlier?”

Dick tenses. “How did you know about that?”

“I saw you do it from the back door. You know, the direction you didn’t look in when you were getting ready to break it?” Scar tsks quietly. “Dislocating your thumb doesn’t help you escape cuffs, _dumbass_.”

“I thought a contusion just meant bruise.” Dick changes the subject. No need to talk about his failure to make a decent escape attempt.

He tries to think back to the torture, to the chances he could have taken in the 13 hours he was kept in confinement. He furrows his brows in frustration, trying to sort through a mental timeline of blurry images and faces with a blacked-out bar that seems to cross his vision so he can see feet but nothing higher. The sharp stinging in his brain is coming back, thumping against the walls of his skull with the force of a hammer.

“It does mean bruise; you have a cerebral contusion. That’s more dangerous than a concussion because your brain is at risk of swelling up and the broken blood vessels have the possibility of irritating the tissue,” Scar explains. Dick winces at the sound of his voice, like needles poking and scraping around in the mush of his head.

“Where are we going?” Dick asks, pushing aside the indistinct memories to get a better grip on what was happening in the present.

“To see a friend of mine,” Scar says, talking in a much softer tone than before. He’s still irritated from what Dick can hear, but he isn’t keeping him in the dark this time. “I only have one favor and I’m wasting it on you. Roman, you bastard.”

Dick takes a moment before he responds to that information. While Scar going to such an extent to save his ass is expected—even if Scar planned to use him the same way Roman did—the concern that his injury doesn’t get any worse is both good and bad news. Good news because it means that Scar is counting on Dick to live longer than an hour or two, if the concern over his brain injury is anything to go by. However, just because that concern seems to be well-placed doesn’t mean Scar is trying to keep him alive for long. He may just be worried about how to get the information he needs if Dick is left mute, or worse.

“That conversation you had with the guard was long.” Dick flicks his unseeing gaze over in Scar’s general direction. There’s a beat where Scar remains silent, as if having not heard the question. Then, finally, he answers.

“It was nothing.”

Dick swallows past the lump in his throat and remains still. “Are you going to kill me?”

The moment it takes to answer the question stretches between them, filling the space with a dark uncomfortableness that leaves Dick acutely aware of Scar’s quiet, nervous tapping on the steering wheel.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

Dick doesn’t talk for the rest of the car trip. He pushes aside his nervous urge of filling silence with words and concentrates on what he can hear outside of the car.

For the first long minutes of the drive away from Roman’s manor there is nothing but silence, save for the occasional sound of the wind whipping at the windshield wipers. There’s also no stops. Roman’s place must be somewhere remote. The telling information that the manor also rests on a private lake narrows down the range of possible suspect homes, which is even better. Dick attempts to force himself to remember the events before waking up in the cellar, but can’t seem to get through the barrier in his mind. He’ll try again later.

After what must be twenty minutes of driving, the sounds of crowds outside the car slowly begin to increase in volume. Scar starts stopping at what must be traffic lights and crosswalks. Dick doesn’t know what specific dialect the Russian that leaks into the trunk is, but it isn’t vastly different from that of a Moscow native. It’s debatable that Scar was honest in admitting that Roman’s estate is in Tula; however, Dick doubts he was out long enough to be driven 19 hours down to Sochi during his kidnapping.

More importantly, however, is that Dick doesn’t scream. He doesn’t fuss, ignoring the urge to kick out one of the tail lights and wave his hand out to grab attention.

He just lays there, content to listen. He knows deep down this is wrong. He should be working to escape, but the urge to do so is all but absent. This is bad; not even his curiosity about Scar’s identity and goal should be keeping him in the trunk, fine with waiting as he’s driven towards possible death.

“I can’t escape,” Dick admits in horror. He grips the plastic of the trunk and cannot find the desire to push himself up to try.

He hears Scar turn around in his seat. “What do you mean?”

Scar doesn’t sound amused or annoyed by his statement. Instead, there’s a light edge of worry in his voice. Dick sucks in a light breath.

“I mean, I can’t. I just— I know I should be trying to escape right now, but I can’t get myself to move,” Dick says, panic swelling in his chest when realizes he’s admitting this to Scar. All common sense has abandoned him, leaving him word vomiting his plans like a chatty five-year-old.

“Do you mean you can’t move?” Scar asks, in the same clinical tone of a child doctor.

“No, I can’t… Almost as if I don’t care, like this isn’t a big deal,” Dick answers.

Scar pauses to think the information over. “Difficulty with thinking and emotions are also possible symptoms of your type of head injury. While these may not be linked, considering how aware you are of this, your inability to force yourself to makes me think they are influenced by the bruise in your brain. You need time to heal.”

Dick swallows and tries not to think too hard about it. He spends the rest of the drive making sure he stays awake.

When Scar finally slows, Dick hears the all-around echo of the car as it drives into either a tunnel or the ground level of a parking structure. The noise from the street vanishes quickly, with only the far-off beeps from locking and unlocking cars to keep them company now.

Scar carefully swings out before pulling into a parking space. The car comes to a slow and steady stop as Scar grips the shifter and moves it with a rough click into park. Dick hears the automated rolling noise before the windows pop open, allowing in the cold night air that helps ease the stuffiness inside the trunk. Dick’s grateful for the car’s open trunk.

There’s the rustling of fabric as Scar reaches into his pocket, pulling out something that Dick can’t identify until he hears the near silent dial-tone.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times, until a woman on the other end answers in Russian.

 _“Hello?”_ The voice is practically a whisper to Dick. He cranes his neck to the side to hear better.

“It’s me. I need your help. Do you have an open CAT?” Scar responds in Russian. The woman on the other end sputters.

_“When I offered you a favor, a CT scan was not a part of the equation. Do you know how long that will take?”_

“I’m not asking for a PET, Victoria, a CT will take five minutes,” Scar argues in irritation.

 _“Five minutes for the scan itself, that’s not including the preparation for the machine and analyzing the pictures. You should have called this in instead of using the favor,_ ” Victoria snaps. Dick grimaces. She sure sounds lovely.

“You know why I can’t call this in,” Scar interrupts, anger creeping into his voice.

 _“I know why you can’t call this in_ ,” she parrots back. There’s a sigh, long and tense with frustration on the other end of the phone. _“We have two ready for use right now, but we’re backed up to hell with a five hour wait with patients. I hope you’re by the back entrance like you’re supposed to be, I’ll be down in a second. Your patient better be dying.”_

“Thank you.” With that Scar hangs up, slips his phone back into his pocket and unclips his seatbelt.

“She sounds pleasant,” Dick says, hoping to fill the few minutes they have to kill by getting information. While escaping may be off the menu, reconnaissance is always possible.

“She is pleasant,” Scar shoots back. “She has a lot of work to do without having it placed in jeopardy by fulfilling a promise she made when things were a lot less complicated.”

“Will she get in trouble for this?” Dick asks. Despite already knowing the location of where he is now, a hospital, the possibility of controversy arising from this unscheduled visit will be something to keep watch for when Dick inevitably escapes. The trail he’s put together is few and far between with what little information he has, but it’s just enough for Leonid and the rest of the Russians at SVR RF to make some headway.

“Possibly.” Scar taps his fingers against the leather centerpiece. “But she’ll do it anyway.”

“What kind of lame answer is that?” Dick teases. “She’ll do it just because?”

“Out of all the things that have been affected so far, I find it unfortunate your tongue hasn’t been.” Scar opens the car door and steps out, just as Dick hears wheels rolling across a cement floor.

“Where are they?” a woman’s voice calls out from a few feet away. From the impatience gracing her words, Dick figures she must be Victoria.

“He’s in the trunk,” Scar answers, and Dick attempts to force himself to sit up as the trunk door clicks open. The wheels squeak to a stop and Dick, in a bizarre déjà-vu like moment, senses ghost handcuffs click around his wrist and catches the phantom scent of burning skin. The fear that strikes him lasts a second, but it’s an ice bath, making him freeze up so violently he might as well be completely paralyzed.

Then the moment’s over, and Dick’s left heaving in a lungful of air like he’s been drowning just in time for Victoria and Scar to see.

Victoria gasps and Scar lunges forward immediately with a rustle of fabric and hands gripping his shoulders. “Dick?”

“Do I really look that bad, doc?” Dick forces out. He reaches up with limp hands and pushes Scar’s off him, doing his best to sit up.

Scar doesn’t seem to believe Dick’s excuse, sliding his hands underneath Dick’s back and knees before he picks him up. Dick groans at the sudden vertigo, threatening to spill over by a sudden and assaulting stink in his nose.

“I don’t have enough equipment to deal with this,” Victoria says. “What are you going to do with him after? He needs close monitoring for at least a week to make sure there’s no damage by a doctor.”

“I am a doctor,” Scar cuts her off. He lays Dick gently against a firm cushion covered by a scratchy sheet. Dick sits up immediately, tilting his head to the side as he chokes. His stomach, so steady before, tosses from the unknown wave anxiety and the foul-smelling parking structure is making it worse. “I’ll take care of everything else.”

“What the fuck is that god awful smell?” Dick interrupts. He doesn’t realize he’s said it in English until Victoria asks Scar for a translation. He tunes them out, breathing through his mouth as he tries to wipe the smell from his nose. There’s the sound of dogs barking from somewhere far off that Dick tries, disastrously, to pay no mind to. What kind of backwater hospital is this?

“I’m not letting you leave until the wounds have been cleaned. I’m surprised they aren’t infected already with how dirty he looks. They probably are,” Victoria clicks her tongue as she assesses him. The bed lurches forward as they begin to move, making Dick fall back against it. He clutches the sides with a whine, swallowing back the bile in his throat. “I don’t know who will write a prescription for you without seeing the patient, none of the medication I have on hand will work for him.”

“I’ll be writing the prescription,” Scar says.

Victoria scoffs. “A self-medicated doctor?”

“Antibiotics are not the same as narcotics. I can get those from a pharmacy fine, same with pain medication,” Scar argues. “What I do need is a few suture kits and an IV bag.”

“You’ll get them,” Victoria sighs.

There’s whoosh of sliding doors opening and the sound of dogs barking deafens his ears. The smell, thankfully, is left behind them, the new environment near-scentless with exception of the faint scent of lemons from cleaning wipes. Dick can’t help but hiss at the noise, lifting his limp-noodle arms to slap his hands over his ears.

The realization that this is not a _human_ hospital doesn’t hit Dick until he hears the loud screech of some predatory bird.

He doesn’t have the time to ask what kind of bird it is as the bed comes to a halt. Someone steps to the side, probably Victoria, who then opens a few of the cabinets, moving things around loudly. Scar takes a step back himself, walking over to stand next to Victoria as she sets a few things onto the counter softly.

“I’ll clean him, Victoria, you just get the CT scan ready,” Scar insists.

“You mean I’ll prepare the areas that need stitches,” Victoria says, unimpressed. She lets out a sarcastic laugh and Dick can only assume it must be in response to Scar giving her a _look._ “Where else were you planning to do it? A bathroom? It’s sterile here, this is the best place to do it.”

“For some reason, I don’t believe being walking distance to that shit-smell outside makes this place sterile,” Dick pipes up.

“We perform operations here; it has to be sterilized, or else all of our patients would be in jeopardy,” Victoria says.

The sink turns on before Dick can respond. He sighs softly, tapping his fingers against the bed as he waits for them to finish. He continues to breathe through his mouth, nausea still heavy and rolling in his stomach and throat. There’s a light sound of rubber snapping like every walking cliché in a Hollywood doctor scene. He hopes they have a numbing agent with them for the stitches, lest they injure their poor, innocent patients.

Scar places a rubber-gloved hand gently onto his shoulder. “We’re going to start now.”

While Scar doesn’t have to give him a play-by-play update of what they’re about to do, Dick appreciates it nonetheless. Dick wills himself to relax and pay attention to keeping his breathing steady, rather than on the sting that comes when they start to roughly wash away the dirt. He clenches the fabric beneath his hands, digging in his nails when he feels the stabbing pain of a brush scrub against the cuts on his sides. He grimaces at how his back will feel when they finally get to it.

It takes a while.

They take it slow, pausing whenever Dick sucks in a particularly tight breath before continuing at a much more delicate pace. He can feel fresh blood dripping down his arms, constantly being wiped away by Victoria once Scar finishes cleaning the wound out, swabbing it down with the harsh bite of alcohol cleansing wipes. There’s the prick of a needle that hurts momentarily for a few cuts that are too deep and ragged to heal naturally. While the area goes numb before Victoria begins to stitch close—always asking if Dick needs more before she begins—the tug of the skin that Dick still feels with the absence of pain is enough to make his stomach recoil in disgust.

Once the stitches are tied off and the wounds have been cleaned out, Victoria follows up with gauze, bandages, and tape. Dick loses track of the care for each individual wound after number five. Change two times a day. Apply Vaseline three times a day. Keep dry for 48 hours and then it can get wet. Dick hopes Scar is remembering all of this.

Eventually, they finish with all the wounds they can treat while Dick is laying on his back. Scar has fun relocating his thumb—thankfully after they’ve numbed the area—and tuts at him not to be so stupid in the future.

They take a moment to argue back and forth about how they’ll do his back without putting too much pressure on his chest.

“I’ll help keep him up while you take care of his back,” Scar says with a sort of finality after a while. “Simple.”

Victoria and Scar help ease him up so that his legs straddle the bed before moving him closer to the edge. Scar steps in front of him, taking Dick’s arms with steady hands, and prompts him to lean forward until Dick’s chin is resting against Scar’s shoulder. Dick uses his own hands to steady himself, gripping Scar’s arms as he lets go of Dick’s to grab the bed and hold it firmly so it won’t roll. Victoria begins instantaneously, scrubbing the filthy back wounds. Dick works hard to suppress his ragged breathing.

“Will you be okay?” Scar whispers, tilting his head ever so slightly. His lips brush against Dick’s ear, sending a slight jolt up Dick’s spine as his cheeks grow hot.

“Of course, Scar, who do you take me for?” Dick smirks in return.

There’s the soft exhale of breath from a faint laugh, Scar’s lips quirking up in response against Dick’s ear again. He suppresses the reaction this time, digging his fingers deeper into Scar’s arms. “I think you need to find another nickname for me.”

“What’s your real name?” Dick asks. Scar hums slightly in response instead. Dick sighs. “Not even an initial?”

“No.”

“That’s a little unfair, don’t you think?” Dick’s voice raises in pitch as Victoria presses against a tender spot. “You have my name and you’ve got me totally reliant on your care. I deserve a little somethin’-somethin’, you know?”

Scar turns his head further, his breath tickling across Dick’s ear and cheek. He mumbles, barely audible. “Not here.”

Then he pulls away, speaking in a quiet tone, but now loud enough for Victoria to hear if she wanted. “You know that I’m a doctor now.”

Dick grumbles in response, twisting the fabric he holds in his fists. He can hear the muffled sounds of the waiting room, the numerous barking dogs and the screaming bird drone on in the background on repeat. There’s also the voices of agitated owners, talking about how long it’s taking and arguing over whether they should stay or go. If someone were to tell him five years ago that he would end up getting stitches in the back of a veterinary clinic in the middle of Russia, blind, in the care of a man he jacked off to upon meeting, he’d have asked them what cocktail of drugs their doctor had put them on. There is no way any of this could ever happen.

“Do you have someone you can call that will follow your directions without question?” Scar asks. Victoria begins to inject his back with more of the same numbing agent from before.

“Yes.” Dick trusts Leonid enough that, despite their bad history, Leonid would come alone and unarmed if asked. Leonid is a better man than him.

“Good.” Scar tilts his head with a careful nod. “Victoria, do you have a set of scrubs I can borrow?”

“No,” she says, poking around in the wounds to see if Dick stiffens in response. Taking the lack of reaction as a go-ahead, she reaches over to grab a new needle. “I’ll give you a shirt to use from the gift shop.”

“Another one to add to my collection,” Dick laughs. His arms shake slightly when he starts feeling the numb-but-not-totally numb tug and pinch as Victoria sews the gashes shut.

In and out. Dick keeps a rhythmic breathing, trying to sync with Scar’s as it blows down his neck to drag his mind away from the operation on his back. Scar whispers soft words of encouragement into his ear after a tight pinch, but mostly stays silent. As much as Dick can appreciate the sentiment of cheering him on, he prefers silence over speaking when it comes to painful stuff like this. And that’s literally the only time he can say that.

Victoria takes a little bit more time with his back in comparison to her quick work on the other parts of his body. Dick considers the idea that she had Scar’s help before. He doesn’t blame her for the necessary time she takes, but does hope she can find it in herself to pick up the pace.

He sighs soft in relief when Victoria finally tapes on the remaining bandages and steps away. Scar brings his hands up to Dick’s shoulders and helps him lie back down.

“Take a moment to rest while we get the machine ready,” Scar says. He pats Dick’s hand before he moves away, walking a few steps into the room as he takes off his gloves with a wet snap.

“As if I could do anything else,” Dick shoots back. He shuts his eyes. He feels sore and achy all over his body, but luckily the worst of his injuries are still numb. While it’ll wear off sooner than later, he’s glad that he can feel somewhat normal again. It almost feels like he’s recovering from a day of training, rather than meticulous and inhumane torture.

And then there’s the blindness, but Dick doesn’t want to think about that. About the possibility that it could be permanent.

He opens his eyes when he hears someone stepping back toward him, recognizing the light taps he’s come to associate with Scar. His walk, Dick’s come to realize, is ghost-like. A soft and careful tread that, if given the extra effort, could disappear almost completely unless someone was paying absolute attention. Dick files that away for later.

“We’re going to put you in the scanner now. Do you want me to stay in the room with you?” Scar asks, putting a hand underneath Dick’s shoulder so he can lift him up.

“Am I a child?” Dick helps as much as he can, sitting up with the little energy he has left.

“No.” Scar is careful with his words. “I just wanted to make sure you’d be comfortable with that.”

“You don’t have to hold my hand, Scar, sweetheart. I can handle myself, I’m an adult.” Dick grins at Scar, tight and nervous.

“I know you are. I know you’re strong, too,” Scar assures him and picks him up once more. “But I won’t think any less of you for admitting you’re afraid of something.”

“What if it’s you I say I’m afraid of?” Dick looks up to where he hopes Scar’s face is. He reaches up, sliding his hands along Scar’s shoulders until they can wrap around his neck, gripping the collar of his coat.

“I would say that for now,” Scar pauses to wet his lips, “you have no need to be. But I know that it won’t stop you from feeling this way.”

“I don’t want to feel this way,” Dick argues under his breath, tilting his head back with a frustrated sigh. “I just want to know what you want; don’t you get it?”

Scar sets him down onto a steel table with only a paper sheet separating his skin from touching it completely. Dick still arches away from it, the shock of the cold shooting up his spine and into his fingers and toes. Scar pauses before laying him down slower so Dick has time to adjust to the feeling.

Dick scoffs when Scar doesn’t respond even after he’s laid down on the table for the scan. The anger that rises from his stomach into his throat is irrational. Dick knows, deep down, that Scar’s refusal to admit who he is could be because to him Dick is a cop, a cop that could easily arrest him for his ties to the human trafficking ring. He’s trying to save his own hide—and Dick’s, for whatever reason, in the process. Dick can be suspicious of Scar’s intentions, but he should also show some gratitude. Getting mad over a situation that won’t change isn’t going to help him in the future.

“I’ll stay in the room,” Scar says.

“No, get out,” Dick snaps.

There’s a beat before Scar continues. “Victoria, stay with him. Make sure he stays on the table.” There’s the silver of worry in Scar voice again, breath ghosting over his face as he leans down over Dick to look at him. Dick jerks his head to the side in childish and unnatural rage before Scar steps back. Distantly, in the recesses of his mind, the memory of Scar telling him he’d have trouble with his emotions from his head injury surfaces. He pushes it away, however, to take a moment to wonder if this, the mood swings, are his first step to going batshit insane.

That, or he’s in the early stages of some impossible pregnancy.

“Do you know how to use the computer?” Victoria asks, uncertain.

“Of course,” Scar answers. He reaches down to give Dick’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Dick doesn’t bother pulling his arm away, but tilts his chin up in snobbish annoyance. There’s a sigh, and Scar steps away from the bed, slipping his hand away. Dick hears the swish of something heavy and plasticity, probably one of those radiation aprons, as Scar leaves the room.

There’s a few minutes of quiet silence, save for the muffled noises of the waiting room drifting in, before the metal slab Dick’s lying on jerks to life.

The whole procedure takes just a few minutes. Dick, for the most part, does his best to lie completely still, opting to keep his eyes open rather than shutting them so he doesn’t risk drifting off to sleep. God, he just wants to get up and go to bed somewhere safe. _Doubt that’s going to happen anytime soon_ , he thinks with a grimace. Still, he’d rather get the clearance to sleep without worrying if he’s going to fall into a coma.

The “bed,” if it can even be called that, finally comes to a halt as Victoria pulls off the plastic from around her and puts it away in the far corner of the room. Dick scratches at the sheet with the fingers that still have nails, waiting with unease rising in his stomach with how long it takes Scar to reappear. It’s nothing, he assures himself. _It’s nothing._

When the doors finally open again as Scar re-enters, it feels like it has been close to an hour. Dick cranes his neck in the direction of the door, listening for any new sounds as Victoria goes over to him.

“How does it look?” she asks, keeping her voice low. Dick holds his breath without meaning to.

“Like I thought: contusion to the lower back hemisphere of the brain. It’s probably why his vision is being affected so badly for a bump on the head.” Scar’s voice is loud, and Dick breathes a thankful sigh of relief. “I’ll get the pain medication myself if it gets too bad for over the counter pain relievers.”

“Easier said than done.” Victoria clicks her tongue. “I’ll write it for you. There are a few pain relievers for animals that should work. That’s only if you need them, however.”

“Thank you for everything, Victoria,” Scar says, gratefulness obvious in the tone of his voice.

“You just owe me a bigger favor now,” she scoffs. “Can’t believe you’re letting yourself get wrapped up in all of this again. I’ll go get your supplies and then get out of here.”

Victoria walks out of the room before Scar heads over to Dick’s side again. He’s still silent, which is starting to get unbelievably annoying. But Dick also considers the fact that, for the first time in a while, he may be keeping quiet because of his outburst earlier.

Dick decides to break the fragile ice this time. “Where are we going after this?”

Scar answers without hesitation. “To run a few errands. I need to pick up your antibiotics, dressings, Vaseline, pain-relievers, alcohol for cleaning wounds, soft foods, and a lot more. I don’t want you eating tonight, there’s no telling how your stomach will handle it after your day, so I’ll be putting you on an IV.”

“And after that?” Dick tries, wanting to see how much information he can get.

“To my hotel room. I need to watch you for several days to make sure your vision returns and you still possess total brain functionality equal to before your head injury.” Scar seems to be more relaxed in giving out information this time. Whether that is due to the fact he deems it unimportant enough or because of Dick’s upset doesn’t matter.

“Do you expect me to walk around the store with you?” Dick asks, curious himself over how his moving situation will work.

“I expect you to sleep in the car,” Scar says, amused. “I don’t think you’re in danger of falling into a coma, and despite the problems with emotions you were having in the car as well as your missing vision, I don’t think they will get any worse if you nap. In fact, I’d say you’d be better off sleeping as much as you can in the next few days. You’ll heal faster and be in less pain.”

“You want me to sleep in the trunk?” Dick laughs, dry and forced.

“No,” Scar responds, voice dropping into a much softer tone. “You’ll be in the front seat, or stretched out on the backseat, whatever you prefer, dressed while you wait for me.”

“What if you get arrested, like those mothers do for leaving their kids locked in a boiling car?”

“It’s a good thing it’s cold outside, then,” Scar says, smile evident in the playful tone of his voice.

There’s the bang of a door and a grunt as Victoria pushes her way back to them, carrying something heavy or awkward from the sound of her odd footsteps. She sets whatever she was carrying down on a nearby counter with the ruffling of cloth and clink of metal.

“Here is your shirt and blanket. I know you asked for a shirt only, but his pants are disgusting, and if you’re going to be covering up something I don’t have anything for his legs. This is your collapsible IV bag holder, I expect this to be returned, as well as your IV bag and fluids. I only gave you enough to last the night and that’s it.”

“Thank you, Victoria.” Scar moves over to the counter and grabs the shirt, careful not to disturb the other items.

“Just hurry up and get out, there’s a lot of angry patients waiting outside.” She huffs and leaves them, opening another door with a bright, “I’m so sorry for the wait.”

“Here.” Dick startles at Scar’s sudden touch against his arm. Scar lets go instantly as Dick sighs in embarrassment.

“Sorry,” he apologizes.

“Don’t be, I should have told you I was about to do that.” Scar touches him again, this time much more slowly, beginning with his fingertips before pressing his palm down.

“I shouldn’t be so jumpy,” Dick groans in embarrassment. “This is ridiculous.”

“This,” Scar begins as he gently pulls Dick up into a sitting position, “is a standard reaction to victims of trauma. There is no need to apologize for something that you can’t help.”

Dick frowns and lifts up his arms over his head at Scar’s prompting. “I was there for less than a day. There are men and women I’ve seen that have been held prison for weeks, hell, even months, who barely react this way.”

Scar doesn’t respond immediately, choosing to slide the shirt over Dick’s head, a process that takes a few good seconds as he carefully eases it down Dick’s body.

“They could be very good at hiding it.” Scar adjusts the length of the back, pulling it down so there are no wrinkles. “Or receiving care that you are unaware of. Everyone is different; just because someone can handle a few days doesn’t mean you should be able to do the same.”

Dick shakes his head, still feeling stiff and shy about everything. “Are you trying to say I’m mentally weaker than my colleagues?”

“Never,” Scar responds, voice firm and authoritative. Dick finds himself taken aback by the severity of his answer. “Listen to me when I say this, not as the man you’ve had the misfortune of seeing more than once, but as a doctor. You are not mentally weak for exhibiting signs of anxiety or fear to an unknown touch or situation because of what you went through. Even if it was only a second, that would not make you weaker than your colleagues. You went through _torture,_ Dick. That is not an easy thing to live through. That is not an easy thing to recover from. The fact that you could stay awake and remain completely still when we were escaping in a situation you had absolutely no control over, that just shows how strong you are. Do not fall into that cycle of self-blame. You have every right to feel nervous and scared right now.”

Dick refuses a response. Scar doesn’t ask him for one. Instead, Dick leans forward, arms spread out, and wraps them around Scar’s waist, who accepts it immediately and earnestly. Despite the tingling of pain that dances across his chest and back from the pressure of the hug, Dick can’t find it in him to care. All he knows is that he needs physical contact. While Scar might be his worst option for it, he possesses something that Dick is in dire need of: comfort.

Dick trembles, burying his face into Scar’s chest as his eyes gather tears and his cheeks grow wet. While he doesn’t know why his body has decided to cry at the most inopportune time, he knows inherently that it’s not because of Scar’s sappy speech. It’s the implication that comes with it, the horrifying idea that he may never truly be “fine” again. That the ease with which he slips into bad situations may be gone forever. That he might end up as one of those people who can’t even order a coffee without wanting to run and hide. Dick doesn’t know which of these fears are extreme and which are plausible, and the idea that his dream job might be over terrifies him.

Scar is the one to break the hug first, slipping away to grab the blanket while Dick takes hold of his shirt, selfish and unwilling to let his object of comfort go.

“You’re okay,” Scar promises, keeping one arm held out toward Dick for him to cling to, while he grabs the blanket with his other hand. Then he’s back, stepping in front of Dick, who wraps his arms around him tightly. Scar reaches down, moving in between Dick’s legs to grip his thighs before lifting him up off the table. Dick quickly readjusts, letting go to wrap his arms around Scar’s neck. He buries his face into the crook of his shoulder, trying to calm himself down.

“I shouldn’t be acting like this,” he says, muffled against the skin of Scar’s shoulder.

“You’ll feel better after you do,” Scar answers, walking out the back door and toward the car. “I have to go back to get the equipment I left behind. Will you be okay by yourself, or do you want me to ask Victoria to get it?”

His first inclination is to tell Scar to stay. But this time he’s thankful that the rational part of his brain demands he take a moment to breathe, settle down, and think about the information he has received thus far. He turns his head so Scar can hear him more clearly. “I’ll be fine.”

If Scar doubts him, he doesn’t say anything, continuing his walk to the car. It must have been left unlocked, because Scar’s able to open it with ease. He puts Dick down carefully, covering up his legs with the blanket.

“I’ll be right back,” he says. The door shuts and he heads back to the clinic, leaving Dick alone with his thoughts.

Dick takes a moment to regain control of his breathing, long ins and outs, trying to stop the tears from coming. He doesn’t remember crying this much in one day basically ever. It’s incredibly embarrassing, and he hopes Scar is telling the truth when he says that Dick will feel better afterward.

He doesn’t know if he stops crying or the tears continually drip slowly down his cheeks as he thinks about his dreams slipping past his fingers. His slow, rhythmic breathing works against him, letting in waves of exhaustion instead.

And then he’s asleep. Without so much as a struggle to keep himself up, he goes completely out cold.

The next few hours—he hopes it’s only hours—are a disoriented mess. He wakes up momentarily in the car with the radio playing the melodic lines of _La Vie En Rose,_ Scar tapping along to the beat. Then he’s sleepily swallowing what must be several pills, water dribbling out of his mouth when his jaw is too heavy to close it. Dick feels Scar wipe away the excess water and set him back in the seat, promising only one more errand before they make it to the hotel.

When Dick finally returns to awareness, it’s a slow transition.

He feels cold air blowing down his arms and legs, giving him the sharp sting of goosebumps. Dick can also recognize the seemingly far-off touch of a cloth rubbing down his legs, moving in strange zigzag patterns. As he continues waking up, he realizes the cloth is damp, warm and wet as it moves over his cool skin. Dick feels soft cotton beneath him and notices the contact extends all the way to his ass. Ah, he’s naked.

“Why am I naked,” he tries to ask. But his voice so heavy with sleep that it comes out slurred and sounds more like a jumble of random letters than actual words.

“I’m giving you a bath.” Scar’s voice is a loud and clear chime in his ear. Dick can place him above his head but his mind can’t seem to make the connection between the phantom wet cloth and Scar.

“No bathtub?” Dick questions, flopping his noodle of a left arm to the side to see if there’s any water he might have missed.

“No,” Scar says, moving higher on his legs, gentle and meticulous. “Your stitches need to stay dry for 48 hours before they can get wet. A wipe down is all I can give you right now.”

Dick grumbles in response, trying to roll over onto his side, but Scar catches his shoulder and moves him onto his back. He groans, weak and pathetic, as he tries to gather himself, still very drowsy. He suddenly feels a sharp itch in the crook of his right arm and goes to bend it, but can’t when he finds out it’s taped to a board, keeping it straight.

“Don’t mess with your right arm,” Scar says. “I put the IV in while you were asleep. It will hurt a lot more if you move it.”

“It’s itchy.”

“I’ll scratch it in a second,” Scar says as he begins to clean Dick’s... Well, no other way to say it, his dick.

“Don’t mess with my thing.” Dick reaches down with his left hand, trying to bat Scar away. Scar easily pushes it aside, but stops.

“I’m just trying to clean you up. I won’t do it if you’re uncomfortable,” he says, moving onto his stomach.

“It’s not that,” Dick tries to explain, still not able to speak clear enough. “I’m not a baby, I can wash my own dick.”

“I’m sure you can.”

Scar shuts down the conversation then and there. He does, however, pause in his cleaning to reach over and scratch the crook of Dick’s arm without aggravating the needle. At least that’s good.

It’s not the weirdest thing Dick’s woken up to, getting bathed by some stranger, but the awkward silence shared between them is up there. He supposes they can’t help it. What are you supposed to say when someone who you barely know is cleaning your smelly unmentionables and has probably gotten a more intimate look at your privates than your actual doctor? “Hope it’s not too bad?”

Dick is suddenly struck by an even more embarrassing realization. That he forgot to manscape recently and it’s probably hairy. It’s such a bizarre thought, but suddenly his sleepy, heavily medicated brain demands he apologize for it.

“Sorry for all the hair.”

There’s a pause in the scrubbing, and a choke as Scar resists the urge to laugh. “It’s alright, I’m well acquainted with hair.”

“Yours or someone else’s?” The more rational side of Dick’s brain is trying to commit suicide from secondhand embarrassment. He hopes he can wake up faster to stop this conscious observance of his pain-medicated word vomit.

There’s a moment of silence before Scar answers. “I suppose I deserve my own share of embarrassment after your day. Both, but some patients try to shave to make it nicer for me. And then there are those who, well, don’t.”

“I promise I’m not this embarrassing,” Dick grumbles, trying to sit up before Scar pushes him back down.

“You are on a lot of medication. The Vicodin isn’t doing you any favors, certainly.” Scar moves on from his dick, thank god, and up to his armpits.

The drugs explain the fuzziness in his head as well as his near-drunken tongue. He’s extremely glad that he can blame them for his invasive questioning. “My head feels like it’s full of cotton.”

“I’m surprised you’re awake enough to speak right now,” Scar admits, moving away to re-wet the cloth. Dick catches the splash of water nearby and gropes around trying to find it. His forehead feels hot. “You’re probably going to sleep much of the next several days. I still have to work, so I’ll be keeping an eye on you via a baby monitor, but I don’t think you’ll be in danger of dying while I am away.”

“What about escaping?” Dick asks. He curses himself the moment he realizes what he’s done. As if he’ll get the chance now.

Scar remains silent, continuing to wash down his arms before he decides to answer. “You can do that, too. There’s certainly enough time in the day for you to wake up and walk out of this room and ask someone else for help. You don’t even have to move far from the bed, you can just use the room’s phone.”

“You’re not going to strap me to the bed or something?” Dick asks, both amusement and confusion coloring his voice.

“How would you go to the bathroom? Adult diapers? I’m not changing those,” Scar snorts, disgusted.

“But you’ll clean me off with a rag, even my cock?” Dick tilts his head and hopes he’s looking directly at Scar.

“Such a crass word,” Scar complains. “You were sweaty, smelly and dirty after being in the cellar. Besides, only cleaning off the places you had your wounds treated doesn’t get rid of the blood that dripped everywhere.”

“But my cock?”

Scar hesitates long enough that the silence becomes awkward. Dick scrunches up his nose. “Weirdo.”

“Are you saying you don’t wash yourself completely when you shower?” Scar retorts. “I’m sorry, I approached this as if it were a hospital situation rather than the two of us knowing each other.”

“Don’t the nurses do this?” Dick feels drool dripping down his lips. He throws his left arm up, smacking himself in the face as he wipes it away. “You said you were a doctor.”

“They do and I am, but considering there are no nurses here, the job falls to me,” Scar insists before he goes back to washing him a lot more quickly than before.

Dick doesn’t bother him as Scar finishes up, moving down his arm before he switches to the other side. When he finishes, he drops the washcloth back into the bucket or bowl without touching his back, which leads Dick to believe he did that while he was asleep. He can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing. Scar shifts to grab something else, and the world dips under Dick like they’re both on a mattress. Scar touches him again with a dry towel, brushing it over his body to wipe away the lingering water.

“Are you really going to leave me here? I could leave and turn you in, you know?” Probably not the best idea, telling mystery man Scar that he is considering turning him into the authorities. But if he’s being honest with himself, he’s probably not in any shape to do that, anyway.

“Listen,” Scar pauses, taking a deep breath. “I know, with the amount of care I am putting in to help you and make sure you make a successful recovery, it makes it seem like I inherently care about you. Let me make this very clear: I do not care about you as a friend or an acquaintance.”

That hurts a little. Dick can’t help but give a strained smile in response. “Ouch.”

“I don’t have a guilty conscious that’s making me take care of you, I am simply using you as a pawn in this game I am playing with Roman. I want to make sure you are fully recovered before you go back to your friends at the police station or whoever your employer is and tell them everything you know. The only way I can make sure of that is by taking care of you, because I know wounds and I know how to treat them. If you want to escape the moment I leave your side I will not be angry, nor will I worry.” Scar continues, voice firm and very clearly honest. "You mean nothing to me."

“Well,” Dick starts, taking a moment to swallow. “Thank you for your extreme candor.”

“I’m not saying this to hurt you.” Scar lowers his voice, bringing in that soft and comforting tone Dick is now able to identify as his “siren” voice. “You have little protection in this situation, like a turtle out of its shell. The least I can do is be honest.”

Dick stays quiet, brushing his thumb over the cotton blankets below him, fingers sparking with static as they begin to wake up too. “A turtle can’t leave its shell without dying though, so your analogy sucks.”

There’s a light laugh and Scar gets back to drying him off.

“Well, you’re more like a big cat anyway.”

* * *

Dick dreams.

Admittedly, he can’t remember the last time he had a dream and this nightmare born of a cocktail of pain medication, antibiotics, exhaustion and torture isn’t exactly the best re-introduction to them. He doesn’t even know this is a dream, really.

Dick is sitting on a park bench in his boxers, the cute ones with the little ghosts on him that his ex gave him four years ago, with a cone animals wear after surgery on his head. He’s holding an un-potted cactus that’s making his hands itch from the prickly sting, but he can’t set it down because the ground is snow. Despite the flat horizon of snow around him that lets him see on for miles upon miles, Roman appears in his fine black suit and cartoonish black skull mask, snapping gloves onto his hands.

“I don’t want to be here all weekend,” he says and steps right in front of Dick, holding a hand out.

Like a marionette doll, Dick leans forward without thinking to and opens his mouth, where his teeth start falling out of his head. Roman brings up both hands to catch them, and when his hands fill up with teeth threatening to spill over he removes them and shoves the teeth into his jacket pockets and starts the process all over again. Dick stares at the reflection in the golden button of Roman's suit. Instead of eyes there are only black holes, even though he can clearly see the world around him, like the slow flow of teeth falling out of his gums.

He looks away out of the corner of his eye where he sees a hospital room with no walls, but a tiled floor and large, tan bed, In the bed lays another reflection of himself, eyes blindfolded by a golden cloth as he lays against the pillows, his right arm held out and hooked up to an IV filled with purple liquid.

Scar steps into the hospital scene, looking the way he did on the outskirts of Moscow at the bad traffic stop, clean-shaven and like he’s barely 22. He’s wearing a candy stripe nurse number that shows off his smooth, tan legs covered with sheer stockings. There’s a clipboard in one hand that he’s flipping through upon entering, hand resting against his narrow waist as he frowns with his pouty lips and adorable furrowed brows.

Scar stops by other Dick’s bedside and turns his head to look directly at him.

“I’m not a doctor,” he says and drops the clipboard, turning around right as Agent Leonid, long hair combed back into a dumb man bun, wearing a doctor’s coat three sizes too small, walks in. Leonid stalks over to Scar’s side, then leans down and pulls him into a demanding kiss. He reaches down with those big, meaty hands of his and squeezes Scar’s ass, eliciting a gasp so obscene Dick tightens his grip on the cactus.

Leonid lifts Scar up by his thighs and tosses him onto the hospital bed where doppelgänger Dick’s head only rolls at the action. Scar props himself up onto his elbows as Leonid shrugs off the doctor’s coat and unbuttons his shirt. Scar turns to look at him again as Leonid steps in between his legs and pushes one hand up his skirt.

Scar shuts his eyes with a soft mewling sound as Leonid continues to move his hand around under his skirt. Leonid uses his other free hand to take off his shirt, where a mountain of chest hair, thick and braided with ribbons fall out and onto Scar chest.

“I told you I was well acquainted with hair.”

Dick wakes up.

It’s not so much as a slow rise to wakefulness as it is Dick snapping his eyes open and sitting up straight as fast as a bullet out of a gun.

His head pounds immediately and he hisses in response, falling back against the pile of fluffed cushions behind him. He shuts his eyes tightly at the sudden fuzzy white view that goes straight to his stomach in the form of vicious nausea. He raises his hand to his head, digging his thumbs into his temples with a low groan of pain. _Ow ow ow ow._

Dick can tell the pain medications have worn off because he feels like he’s been hit by a train. He can’t even be happy about the (hopefully) positive change in his vision, wracked as he is by waves of sharp aches. His hands shake and he lets out a loud groan in the hopes that, should Scar be home, he’ll hear him.

No one comes to his side, though, and he hesitantly opens his eyes when his stomach settles a little more. He doesn’t know what’s worse: the reddish-brown darkness he experienced yesterday, or the greyish-white with the hint of shadows that he notices when he moves his hand away from his face. Both make him feel ill. He lays on the bed, waiting for something he’s not sure before he starts shouting.

“Scar!”

The room is silent save for the distant sound of traffic from what must be several floors below him. Dick places his hands under him, pushing himself up before he falls onto his back with the sharp, searing pain in his stomach. He’s only lying down for a second before his throat twitches and he can only mutter an annoyed, “ _Oh boy,_ ” before he heaves himself up and leans over to what is hopefully the side of the bed and vomits.

Dick can’t remember the last time he threw up, which makes it even worse as he grips the edge of the bed and dry heaves violently because there is nothing inside his stomach. He doesn’t hear what he does throw up hit the ground, making him realize it must be carpet. That’s going to leave a stain. The moment he finishes, the phone rings, so close to his ear that Dick nearly jumps off the bed in surprise. He slams his hands over his ears as the shrill ring sets his brain on fire. He shoots an arm out, knocking a glass of something off the bed that crashes to the ground with a wet splat as he feels around for a phone.

He grabs the awful noisy object, bringing it up to his face. “Hello?”

He asks in English and doesn’t bother hiding his frustration. “I didn’t think you’d wake up this early.”

“You’re shit at timing,” Dick mumbles, falling back against the pillows and shuts his eyes. “Where are you?”

“Work, the baby monitor I set up alerted me. How are you feeling?” Scar sounds apologetic over the phone, but more business-like. He’s talking clearly so Dick realizes he must be in a bathroom or somewhere else that’s private, how convenient.

“By work, do you mean at Roman’s house of fun and murder?” Dick winces as he tries to adjust himself so his back is propped up against the headboard. “I feel like total crap, to be honest.”

“I left your pills out on the nightstand by the phone and a glass of water to drink it down with.” _Fuck._ “You shouldn’t eat them on an empty stomach, but the IV is still in so you won’t feel the need to throw up afterwards.”

“Well I already did, so what’s once more?” Dick snaps back, placing his hand back on the table where he carefully palms around until they land on a pile of pills. He grabs them all in one go and stuffs them into his mouth, too irritated to do it one by one, crunching them up and swallowing the bitter contents with a disgusted shudder.

“Try not to throw up the pills, Dick,” Scar says. “I’ll be back in another two hours. Try to go back to sleep.”

Scar in a candy stripe outfit being fucked by Sasquatch man Leonid comes to mind. “Is that a good idea?”

“Yes?” Scar answers, confused. “Why wouldn’t it be?”  
  
“No reason,” Dick says, checking insane drug dream off his mental bucket list. “How are you?”  
  
“I’m fine, thank you,” Scar sounds concerned. “Are you... feeling alright?”  
  
“Never better,” Dick looks around the room with his newly regained vision. He can see shadows against the greyish white of his vision now that he’s woken up further. His stomach hurts more than a little. “I see white stuff, and my stomach feels like it wants to move out.”  
  
“Nausea is common,” Scar says. A door opens in the background, and he immediately switches to Arabic. “That’s why I surrounded your bed with towels. It’d be better if you made it to the bathroom, the cool tile may feel nice.”  
  
“You’re lucky I know Arabic,” Dick groans as he does his best to sit up. His throat feels dry and scratchy when he swallows, closing his eyes when the pounding in his head returns. “How can I get to the bathroom with the IV?”  
  
“The stand can roll, Dick.” Scar sounds like he’s walking and rushed. “I have to get off the phone before someone gets suspicious, I’ll be home soon. Do you want me to pick you up anything to eat or drink from the store?”  
  
The thought of eating something makes Dick’s stomach lurch. He shakes his head and hisses into the phone. “Really? You’re asking me that now?”  
  
Scar sighs softly. “Sorry. I’ll get you some Emetrol when I get off work. That will help with your upset stomach so you can eat. For now, either sleep or stay in the bathroom.”  
  
And then Scar hangs up. Dick groans and lays back against the pillows. He closes his eyes, focusing on breathing in and out through his nose as he waits for the pills to kick in. The thought of calling the police station comes as he goes to set the phone back down. He presses it against his forehead, trying to think of where the numbers are on the on the receiver. Dick sighs.  
  
While returning to the police station is the most logical thing to do with his free time so he can get human medical care, he finds himself setting down the phone. Dick convinces himself the reason he isn’t calling the station is because he thinks he can get more information out of Scar before he returns to work. At the same time, Dick feels safe inside the hotel, and he knows that if he returns to the station in this state they’ll take him off the case due to his vision and inability to move. He’d rather wait until he’s more recovered before he calls the police station to get him. At least with his vision back they would be less likely to take him off the case, or at least let him stay in Russia and not send him packing back to Dublin.  
  
Dick groans as he pushes himself up fully, crawling forward on the bed to climb off the opposite end. When he feels the tug of the IV he hesitates, gritting his teeth at the sensitive pull, and grabs the tube with his left hand. He reaches the edge of the bed after several minutes, pausing every now and then to lay down and catch his breath, waiting for his ill stomach to settle slightly. He grabs the edge and swings his legs over the side, panting, and pulls the tube further so the IV stand is in front of him to grab.  
  
He slowly eases himself to the floor, planting his feet first before lowering to his knees. He stretches his right arm out to grab the IV stand and feels forward with his left hand while he crawls. He guesses that the bathroom his either to the right or left of the bed rather than straight forward. He’ll map out the layout of the hotel room eventually when he’s feeling less sick to his stomach.  
And in pain of course.  
  
Dick tries the right first. He bumps into what must be a dresser automatically, making him fall back and clutch his head, lying against the tile floor with a whine. “Fuck me.”  
  
He rolls onto his side before propping himself up, moving a lot slower to avoid crashing into any more furniture. Dick also quickly discovers that the white of his new vision makes him feel worse than the dark brown of his old sight. He closes his eyes to settle his stomach. It’s annoying that he is now purposefully blinding himself, but he feels so gross he doesn’t care anymore.  
  
His search of the right side reveals towels, which he moves away from the moment he touches, in fear of getting his hand in vomit. He also finds the small door of a walk-in closet, which he is very quick to disprove as being the entrance to the bathroom due to its carpeted flooring. What ass-backwards place would have carpet in a bathroom, after all?  
  
He curses under his breath when he hits the wall, realizing that the universe must despise him. Thankfully, however, as he starts his trip back to the front of the bed, the drugs have kicked in to where he no longer feels the sharp pounding in his head. He makes it to the front faster than his journey along the right side, so he’s quick to begin searching his left. He does take a quick detour to feel along the front area, finding the entrance to the hallway that he hopes opens into a living room.  
  
He only feels along the right side of the wall before he finds the entrance to the bathroom. He stands up on shaky feet, high enough to open the door to the bathroom before dropping back down, incredibly weak and sore as he pulls himself into the room. He hopes the maids at least mopped before Scar rented the room—and that Scar himself doesn’t have disgusting bathroom manners—as he slides his hand along the floor. He finds the toilet easily, more than a little grateful when he discovers that the lid is shut, opening it up for him to use if necessary.  
  
He finds the edge of the bathtub, cold and made of what must be marble upon further analysis. He props himself up against it, shivering at the coldness of the floor and tub. Hesitantly, he starts to lift himself onto his feet, feeling around the room for towels. He finds them after a few moments of waving his arms around, pulling down the two hanging ones and making a makeshift bed and blanket to lie on. He curls up beneath the towel, realizing then he’s in only a pair of boxers (made of silk, so they’re not his own). He decides he doesn’t care much and tries to take his mind off his stomach and onto the relieving cool press of tiles on his forehead.  
  
Dick doesn’t realize he dozes off.  
  
One second he’s trying to force himself to sleep, and the next he jolts into awareness as the distant sound of a door opens. Dick hopes it isn’t the maid because he has a lot of explaining to do about the mess on the floor.  
  
“Dick?” Scar calls, locking the door behind him.  
  
Dick groans instead of responding, shutting his eyes again. He drags the towel over his head, ignoring the footsteps coming in his direction.  
  
He hears Scar make a noise of surprise as he enters the bedroom, probably upon seeing the vomit, before he peeks into the bathroom.  
  
“Dick?” There’s an amused scoff. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Sleeping, you loud bastard,” Dick grumbles.  
  
Scar steps beside him, setting down something that sounds like a plastic bag filled with heavy objects. He washes his hands at the sink, then crouches down besides Dick, knees cracking on the way down. _Someone needs to drink more milk,_ Dick thinks. Scar moves the towel down and Dick squints, despite seeing only white, at the sudden increase of brightness.  
  
“Your eyes are responding to sources of light,” Scar notes immediately. “That’s good.”  
  
“It makes my head hurt,” Dick complains as he tries to take the towel back. Scar lets him, instead taking his right arm.  
  
“Your inner ear is probably unbalanced from not being able to ‘see’ the motions, like car sickness,” Scar says, opening the under-sink drawer beside them. “It will get better the more your vision returns. If you want to make it better for now, I’d wear a blindfold.”  
  
Dick scrunches up his nose, thinking of his twin in the hospital bed as Leonid and Scar fucked on top of him. “Does Vicodin have any side effects?”  
  
“Every drug does.” Scar clicks open a plastic container, taking something out before he shuts it. “Why do you ask?”  
  
“Are crazy-ass dreams a part of it?” Dick wonders aloud. He regrets it the moment after he brings it up. He does not want Scar to analyze the meaning of _that_ dream.  
  
“I’m sure they could be, especially with all the medication you’re on. Not to mention the pain that’s mixing in with it. Why? Did you dream something very graphic and gory? Those are common after surgery.”  
  
“I guess you could say that.” Dick puts a final note in his voice. He doesn’t want to continue talking about it. Scar seems more than fine with that, more focused on taking Dick’s right arm into his lap.  
  
“I’m going to remove your IV, okay?” Scar explains, probably noticing Dick’s curiosity. He peels them tap away holding the needle in place.  
  
“I’ll count down,” Scar offers, but Dick quickly shakes his head.  
  
“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d rather you not.”  
  
Scar hums in response, a little surprised by Dick’s refusal. He presses a cotton ball against the needle very lightly before he quickly and very carefully slips it out. Dick squirms at the feeling, mostly numb from the Vicodin, as Scar presses the cotton ball hard against the injection site, setting down the IV drip as he grabs a roll of medical tape.  
  
Scar tears off a piece and wraps it around the cotton ball once, twice, to hold in in place before he lets go of Dick’s arm. Dick pulls it back against his body, glad to be able to bend it again, as Scar gathers up the IV and tosses it into the trash can near the toilet.  
  
“Don’t you have to dispose of the needle somewhere safe?” Dick asks.  
  
“It’d be nice to have a sharps container for safe disposal, but considering we don’t have much to work with, the trash can will do.” Scar gets up for a moment to rewash his hands. Once he’s finished he joins him back on the floor. “Would you like to stay here or be moved back onto the bed?”  
  
Dick takes a moment to think it over, noting how much he prefers the cool touch of the tile in comparison to the warm cotton. “I’ll stay here for now.”  
  
“It’s probably for the best. I’ll make you a more comfortable bed. Will you be okay for a few minutes while I clean up the spill?”  
  
Dick nods, not minding if the anti-nausea medicine is delayed a few more minutes. He’d rather not have so many drugs inside him at one time, risking another appearance from nurse Scar and teeth waterfalls.  
  
Scar gets up and busies himself behind Dick, gathering up the soiled towels and dumping them off somewhere further into the building. Dick doesn’t realize how much the room smells like puke until the towels are gone and Scar opens a window slightly when he returns.  
  
He quietly listens to Scar mop up the rest of the mess in silence without so much as a mumble of annoyance under his breath. Scar must be a doctor, no joke, because the sheer patience he’s displaying taking care of all this real grossness is, quite frankly, astounding.  
  
“You’re pretty cool,” Dick says out loud when Scar steps into the bathroom to wash his hands for a third time. Scar laughs.  
  
“What makes you say that?”  
  
Dick shrugs, “I don’t know, you’re just pretty cool for a guy that wants to use me. Cleaning up my messes and stuff. Real sort of...” Dick pauses, trying to think of a word to describe their oddly close relationship. “...intimate of you.”  
  
Scar laughs again. “Taking care of you while you’re ill is intimate now?”  
  
“Well, I don’t think my partner at the station would clean up my vomit, even if I was blind. Or give me a bath by hand. And we’ve known each other for years. And yet we don’t even know each other’s names and here you are, already sticking things into me.” Dick can’t help but smile when Scar laughs again. “You’re like my husband or something.”  
  
“Now that’s a little extreme,” Scar teases back. “I don’t think we’re on that level yet.”  
  
“Right, you just call me when I wake up and ask me what food I want.” Dick says in response. “Fine, not husbands, I can tell you’re scared of commitment. Boyfriends, maybe.”  
  
Scar scoffs staying quiet for a moment before he responds, amusement clear in his voice. “Boyfriends sounds more realistic, anyway.”  
  
“I suppose it does.” Dick smirks slightly.  
  
Dick goes back to curling up against the floor as Scar leaves the bathroom to pick up the plastic bag he dropped outside earlier. Despite the fun he’s having talking to Scar, his stomach is still very violently unruly, so he quiets down as he tries to take his mind off the nausea rising in his throat. Scar seems to pick up on that as he takes something out of his bag, ripping off some more plastic. Then there’s the unscrewing of a cap before Scar is propping up his head.  
  
“Here.” Scar presses something plastic against his head. “Drink, so you can eat.”  
  
Dick hesitantly opens his mouth as Scar pours the syrupy, chalk-tasting contents in. Dick tries his best not to breathe, tilting his head away from the plastic cup when he’s finished. Scar lays him back down before he gets up once more. “Disgusting.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you’ll feel even better once it takes effect.” Scar rolls his shoulders, cracking them before he takes a deep sigh. “I don’t know what you’d prefer. I brought a seeing eye cane for you use to use around the hotel room if you are inclined to move. While I’d prefer you to stay in bed, if you want to leave I may as well give you the means necessary to do so.”  
  
“Thanks,” Dick says because he has nothing else to say. Scar reaches into the bag and pulls out what must be the cane, fiddling around with it with a few clicks as he snaps it out to its full length. He sets it down beside Dick, somewhere within reach he hopes, before he walks out of the bathroom.  
  
Scar moves out into the main room and walks around, moving things and turning the TV on at a low volume. Dick does his best to concentrate on sleeping rather than feeling sick to his stomach, which is quite hard to do when it gets down to the meat of everything. Still, Dick waits, kind of impatiently, for the medicine to take effect, and when his stomach finally settles, he feels up to exploring around the room.  
  
Not before he uses the bathroom, however, finding it quite the experience to pull himself up onto the toilet by both the outer rim of it as well as the corner of the sink. It feels weird to spend a good several minutes doing this process. He wonders if this is why it takes Tatsu so long to go to the bathroom too, considering how tiny she is.  
  
Once he’s done, he dries off his hands and the edge of the sink extremely well before he places his palms against the counter and pushes himself up so he’s standing. While he does still feel the pain of his wounds, especially from his missing toenails, the wooziness that comes from standing is mostly due to the medication he’s on rather than pain. Likewise, keeping his eyes open yields similar results, giving him sharp stabs of motion sickness. The Emetrol is working; the nausea that does come to him is small and easy enough to ignore. It’s the tight ache in his head that comes from the brightness of his open eyes that pushes him to keep them closed.  
  
Holding onto the cool edge of the sink, Dick sweeps around his left foot to locate the cane Scar left for him. He passes around the area several times before he hits it, gripping it between his big toe and second toe as he lets his leg up and bends the knee close to him.  
  
Dick takes the cane, testing it out in his hands to get a feel for its reach as he swipes it back and forth across the tile floor. When he correctly identifies everything, he proceeds to head out the door. He’s slow moving of course, groping around for something to support as he feels around outside. He could laugh at how awkward it is, but gets the hang of it quickly. Now feeling safe without the threat of accidentally stepping in vomit, Dick walks around the room. He finds the bed in the center of the room with relative ease. He then makes his way further down to the left, beyond the entrance to the bathroom to see what else is there. He finds another nightstand, only realizing what exactly it is as moves his hand away from the wall and comes into immediate contact with the scratchy lampshade.  
  
Dick ends his search early, considering he already felt around the right side on his hands and knees, before he exits the bedroom. He hears the low bubbling of something cooking along with the smell of something tomato-y. He was right guessing the bedroom opens into a hallway, picking up the layout when the space becomes tight and he can easily place his hand against the wall and remain in the middle of the “room.” The space feels a lot warmer than his bedroom, preferring it immensely to the uncomfortable kind that comes from lying in bed.  
  
There’s the noise of the television coming to his left, playing something low with quiet music. Dick guesses that it’s probably a drama or something, not a loud, cheery sitcom. Or maybe only American sitcoms are annoying like that. Whatever it is, it takes a few moments of listening to realize they’re speaking in Polish rather than Russian.  
  
“You should sit down,” Scar snaps, voice coming from the same direction as the food. “You’re going to feel worse standing up like that for a long amount of time.”  
  
“Good thing I won’t be standing up for a long amount of time then,” Dick smiles as he walks into the open area. He’s a little more unsure about the area in comparison to the bedroom. He stands in the doorway for a moment, unsure before he decides to go to the left, toward the television. There’s a sigh and the sound of footsteps as Scar stops what he’s doing to walk over to him. Dick listens to him come, expecting him to lead him over to the couch to lay down.  
  
What happens, however, is Scar places a hand on the small of his back, and takes Dick’s free arm so it’s using his shoulder for balance and stability.  
  
“What are you doing?” Dick asks with a light laugh as Scar stands completely still.  
  
“You’re obviously not going to stay put until you’ve seen the room and I’m not going to clean you up when you’ve fallen on your face. Just be quick about it so I can get back to your dinner.”  
  
“What’s for dinner?” Dick asks, stepping away from the wall now that Scar is supporting him so he can feel around the room.  
  
“Tomato or potato soup. I didn’t know which you’d prefer.” Scar pulls him a little closer so Dick can lean most of his body against him. It’s then Dick realize their height difference, something so small, and for whatever reason Dick is glad that, for all the things Scar is better at, Dick is taller.  
  
“Or is it because you first chose potato but didn’t want to seem like you were stereotyping?” Dick smacks his cane against something.  
  
“Couch,” Scar says before Dick can investigate what it is. “So you’re from Gotham.”  
  
Dick takes a moment to pale at the statement. Fuck, how long had he been a spy? A week? He doesn’t remember letting his accent seep in. It must have happened when he was semi-conscious. He normally never made that big of a mistake.  
  
Scar sounds smug as he continues. “I thought so. At first I thought it was Manhattan, but you were too soft with your Rs when you weren’t paying attention.”  
  
Dick grimaces at the discovery, moving away from the couch to sulk further in the direction of where the TV sound is coming from. His cane hits something before gets too far beyond the couch, the hit traveling up the cane with a wooden smack. “End table.”  
  
Dick tries to think back to all the times he’s heard Scar speak English without playing a role. His English, for the most part, sounds very natural. He uses contractions easily the same way a native speaker does, unlike someone non-native such as Agent Leonid. A subtle title to his words suggests a mixture of multiple accents typical of bilingual children. Scar, Dick guesses, was raised in America, considering the hardness of his R’s, but to non-native Arabic parents. That much is obvious, but Dick can’t pinpoint what Arabic accent it is. He could say Egypt, but he doubts it’s that simple.  
  
Still, he wants to have the same one-up on Scar like he does him.

“If we’re going to start playing the stereotype game, can I ask where your goat is and why you aren’t at least 20 pounds heavier?” Dick moves the cane away from the table and ventures forward.

Scar’s hold stiffens on him, probably surprised at Dick’s own ability to read him so well. There’s an inkling of worry in the back of his mind for showcasing his ability to recognize accents so well. He supposes he can pass himself off as just a smart detective, and that’s why he became an officer in the first place. But there’s no telling if Scar is stupid or dim-witted enough to believe that lie after all the crap they’ve been through together so far.

“Is that your trick at parties?” Scar asks, trying to play off the suspicion in his voice. Dick feels the urge to dance with fire, wanting to see how far Scar will go in admitting things. Instead, he decides to put a cap on it, save that game for when he can see Scar’s reactions, because as much as the stutter of breath helps, there is nothing more obvious than the twitch of the eye.

Dick can hear the TV well now. He curls up his lip at the whining of the actor going on about something, his girlfriend leaving him for another man, before he laughs.

“I didn’t know you liked telenovelas!” Dick grins as his cane makes contact to what must be the TV stand. Scar scoffs, embarrassment clear in the way he plays it off.

“First, it’s Polish. It can’t be a telenovela if it isn’t in Spanish. Second, the hotel gets very limited channels.”

“Okay,” Dick says, turning his head to Scar as he opens his eyes momentarily so he can wink. “The only thing that would make it more ironic is if you were watching a Russian dub of _General Hospital._ ”

Scar curses at him, this time in Arabic. “You are an annoying little monkey.”

Dick lets go of Scar momentarily to wave his hand from side to side as he scrunches up his face. “The creativity was good, but the content of that insult was really subpar.”

“Are you done exploring yet? Or do you like your dinner burned?”

“You don’t have to help me around, you know; this is all your own fault,” Dick accuses him, waving his finger.

Scar sighs, probably pinching his nose with the way his head drops and mumbles. “I don’t know how you can go from a poor young man who is in such distress that you make my heart break when I see you upset, to so insufferable I just want to end your misery by smothering you.”

“That sounds like a love confession.”

Scar scoffs. “Your wit is not something that I find endearing normally. Doing it now while you are, arguably, at my mercy doesn’t seem like a smart idea.”

Having a feeling that he’s fully investigated the corner area, he moves to turn around, Scar guiding him carefully as he goes. Dick decides to continue along the wall of the what he assumes is the living room area. He hears the traffic of the street become louder for a moment as he passes one section of the wall and guesses that it must be the location of a window. He doesn’t ask Scar for clarification, trusting his hearing for the time being.

“You like my sass, it gives you a chance to use all of those insults you’ve been just dying to try out,” Dick retorts with a pleased little smile. Scar doesn’t seem to share the sentiment if the huff, followed by a late “shelf,” is anything to go by.

Dick doesn’t hit the shelf hard; he’s going too slow for that. But that doesn’t make the bump to his forehead any less painful. He lets out a light hiss in response, reaching up to rub at the tender spot.

“I think you want me to have brain damage,” Dick says with a groan. In hindsight, he should have thought about objects that were off the floor too, such as shelves or low hanging chandeliers, but he’s most eager to map out the floorplan.

“I think I want you to sit down so you don’t suffer from any more brain damage,” Scar says. “Counter.”

Dick stops as his cane hits the counter that resides in the kitchen, now smelling both the rich, salty smell of potatoes and along with the stronger fruity tomato scent. Dick bats the cane around from side to side, making a muted sort of wooden sound that Scar addresses after he hits them three times. “Stools.”

“I can sit here while you go back to your precious soups,” Dick suggests as he reaches forward to grab the plastic seat of the stool.

“You’ll fall over, and it’s more likely to give your stomach unease from your struggle to remain sitting up straight. Just lie down for now,” Scar says, exasperated.

While Dick wants to continue exploring the remaining floor levels, the sudden thought of eating burned soup comes to mind and sends a disgusted jolt to his already unwell stomach. With a violent gag, he nods his head and starts moving back in the direction of the couch.

“Okay, okay, I see your point, let’s go sit down,” he says, curt and quick while Scar sputters in surprise at the sudden change in opinion. Scar easily helps him over, however, making sure that he doesn’t trip in the rush to get to the couch as he helps Dick down into a comfortable position. Dick drops the walking cane the moment he’s fully onto the (shockingly leather) couch, burying his face into a soft fur pillow.

“What kind of room is this?” Dick grumbles, voice half-muffled by the pillow. “The prime minister’s room?”

“It’s a presidential suite,” Scar answers, voice fading with the sound of his footsteps as he walks back into the kitchen. “I like having space to move around in.”

“Damn doctor paychecks.” Dick shifts so he’s lying on his side, a much nicer position for his stomach.

“Doctors are not paid that well in Russia, Dick,” Scar says. The sound of wood scraping against metal rises as he stirs the pots. “They’re paid the equivalent of minimum wage here.”

“We’re not here to talk about how backwards this place is,” Dick slurs, now starting to feel the after effects of the Vicodin as it enters its “last stages.” “How did you get enough money to pay for this place? I know you do henchmen work for Roman but that doesn’t seem like it would be that much better of a pay raise.”

“Roman doesn’t pay me.” Scar bangs the spoons against the pots to get the remaining soup drips off, setting them down against a stone countertop. “Not that I’d accept such dirty money, anyway.”

“So you help Roman sell men and women for money out of the goodness of your heart? Sure, you say that now, but something tells me you’re a sellout.” Dick tunes in a little more to the television show. A woman is screaming about her lousy boyfriend. “That still doesn’t explain how you can afford a room like this on such awful paychecks.”

“I suppose it doesn’t, but I don’t want to tell you how,” Scar says.

Dick hums, not interested in letting the conversation go. “Okay, so you don’t like Roman, but you work for him. So, who are you really? Not the average person, you travel way too much for this to have all been coincidental. Us meeting, I mean.”

“I wouldn’t make too many guesses if I were you,” Scar says. Okay, so literally every job is crossed off the list now. Scar can either be warning him because if Dick guess something right and it’s illegal, Scar may assume him too risky of a target and finally off him. Or if Dick guesses something right and it is legal, say an actual member of the Mukhabarat like Dick assumed with Yamashiro that now feels like decades ago, Dick could be taken off the case so fast he’d be in Dublin by the time he finished his guess.

“Okay, you just made it easier for me to guess,” Dick says instead, because if he’s about to be compromised he at least deserves to drag someone down with him so they can go to hell together. And from what he’s seen of Scar so far, sharing his torture room in hell with someone that attractive is fifty shades of okay with him.

“For your own safety I’d keep your guesses to yourself,” Scar warns again. Dick, realizing that the conversation is going to inevitably go nowhere, falls silent instead.

There’s the creak of something opening and from the long length of squeak and sound of air, Dick assumes it’s a cabinet as Scar pulls something glass out. He sets them down against the counter with a light chink of the glass hitting the stone before he scrapes the pots and fills up the bowls. The pouring is followed by the sound of Scar opening a drawer, reaching inside to shift some metal around before he closes it. He puts what Dick assumes are spoons into the bowls, dishes clinking as he brings them over.

Scar sets the bowls down before turning away almost immediately to head back into the kitchen. As he enters, Scar opens something else that sounds a little sticky upon opening, but the sound of the fan quickly identifies the object as a refrigerator. Scar takes something out before walking back over and setting down two more objects, one glass, and the other plastic by the less distinct hit of the object against the table.

“The drinks, water and a Gatorade, were only in the fridge for a small amount of time, so they should be room temperature. Not too cold if you want to drink now, however, I’d wait a few more moments for the soup to cool,” Scar says, crouching down beside him.

“You want the food to taste bad?” Dick laughs. “Weren’t you the one getting all upset when you thought the soup was going to burn?”

“You are missing two back molars,” Scar deadpans. “Aside from those making your mouth sensitive, your stomach is upset, which will be worse with very strong temperatures, hot or cold.”

Dick doesn’t remember having two teeth pulled from his mouth, but as he swipes his tongue around in his mouth he finds the holes, slightly bloody but already clotted. Funny, he didn’t remember waking up to the taste of blood this morning. In all honesty, he was too consumed with the ache in his head and the unease of his stomach to notice. He thought he was well-adjusted to the flavor, but now his mouth tastes like old copper, like he has a penny on his tongue. His stomach curls in disgust.

“I’ll wait for it to cool off.” _And for my stomach to come back,_ he thinks, but he doesn’t voice that part out loud. “What flavor is the Gatorade?”

“Lemon-lime,” Scar answers. “I wanted to make sure it was neutral, but not disgustingly bland. You don’t have to drink it; I was concerned about dehydration after you spent the night sweating it out.”

While Dick isn’t that big of a juice fan, the relief the whole “electrolyte” thing will bring is a welcomed change in his feeling like absolute and utter shit night. “What time is it?”

“It’s 7pm,” Scar says, “You were up off and on this morning, but we entered the hotel around 3 am.”

The passage of time is jarring. While Dick hasn’t really been able to keep track of the days since he’s been in Roman’s dungeon, losing so much time is more than alarming. It’s downright scary. Dick hopes that Leonid is searching his ass off for him, or has a least found his phone. He doesn’t know which one would be more disappointing to go without.

“That’s a long time,” Dick says finally. He doesn’t know what he wants more now, a layout of the hotel or a way to tell time accurately. His vision needs to come back faster.

“It is a long time. However, you needed the sleep to recover. You should still be sleeping now, or at least not talking and just trying to relax,” Scar asserts, reaching over to pick up one of the glass objects. “Trying to do all of this too fast will only hurt you in the long run.”

“I’d rather know what the heck is going on in the long run,” Dick retorts and pushes himself up so he’s sitting up rather than lying down. “This is very alarming for me.”

There’s a soft sigh as Scar reaches to take his hand and leads it to the cool press of a glass cup into his palm. “I know. Just focus on eating and drinking for now. I’ll give you all the information you need. Thankfully, I’ll be able to stay home for the rest of the weekend with only a few errands. I’ll give you all the updates you require.”

Dick takes a sip from the glass and grimaces at the icy cool that freezes his sensitive teeth, but likes the relief it brings to his dry, sore throat. He takes a few small sips with breaks in between, not wanting to fill his stomach with water. Scar takes it when he holds it out to signal that he’s finished for the moment.

“That works out for you, can’t escape with you here,” Dick says, holding out his hand ready for one of the bowls. Scar instead gives him the plastic cup of the Gatorade. He sighs and takes a drink of it.

While the drink isn’t anything too powerful in terms of flavor, Dick’s stomach still does a double-take upon tasting it. The lemon taste is palpable, something Dick hasn’t experienced with most juices he’s ever had the misfortune of drinking, and he must take a long moment to adjust to the taste. When he does, the drink settling in his stomach without too much of a fuss of coming back up, the hunger he didn’t know he had strikes him quick and vicious.

He holds the drink back out for Scar to take, bending at the waist from the nausea that comes from being so hungry because bodies are cruel assholes.

“Do you want me to spoon feed you?” Scar sounds genuine, as always lately, picking up the bowl and getting a spoonful before Dick can even respond. The sharp smell of tomato, thick and strong hits him like a slap when the spoon is held beneath his lips and it’s enough to send Dick careening back.

“Unless you want to take a shower in something that isn’t water, you should probably give me the potatoes.” Dick doesn’t care if he’s a walking stereotype, potatoes are bland enough to be eaten easily and food enough to satisfy his hunger pains.

Scar seems to identify his mistake, because the spoon and soup are both gone within seconds. Dick doesn’t even have to ask.

He lays back against the pillows with a soft sigh. He refocuses on the television and the ranting woman, going on and on about her “ignoramus” of a boyfriend, as she’s so lovingly described. _Frajer this, frajer that, if I had a euro for every time my frajer would do insert stupid response here_. The Polish word for boyfriend gets caught up inside Dick’s head because of how it sounds, like the title of a job that someone holds at their local restaurant. He laughs a little at that, mumbling the word repeatedly in his head.

He startles slightly when he feels the warm press of the spoon across his lips, weakly raising up to bat it away, though he misses entirely.

“Sorry,” Scar says, bringing the spoon back. “I thought I was going to be feeding you.”

“Looks like we can add spoon-feeding to the list, too.”

Dick opens his mouth and accepts the food. The potatoes are warm mush in his mouth, with a lumpy texture that makes him worry about loose hairs being found in the mixture. There’s the light undertone of salt to go along with the potatoes with the spicy hint of pepper, which saves the soup from tasting like warm, wet cardboard. The feeling that shudders through him as the food slides down his throat is the same as slugs squirming across his hand. Thankfully, whatever god there is spares him from wanting to vomit for the twentieth time this evening.

Dick assumes, for whatever reason, Scar only meant that he’d spoon feed him the first bite and then would give him the bowl to continue. What happens instead is Dick sits up just as Scar moves the spoon against his mouth, sending it to collide against his nose.

It’s worse than water. As he inhales in surprise, the spoon knocks his lip, pinching against his teeth, soup going up his nose. He whips his hand up, rubbing at his nose immediately, trying to dislodge as much as he can as he yelps in surprise and pain.

“What the fuck, Scar?” Dick shakes his hand with the potato soup on it, wiping around his mouth to get the excess away.

“I told you I was going to be spoon feeding you,” Scar sighs, clanking the spoon against the bowl as he gets another bit of soup. Dick rolls his eyes and opens his mouth like a child to accept the food.

“Okay,” Dick says, mouth full of mush. “This is going way beyond doctor duties and nurse stuff. You are way too… on all of this.”

“I’m just trying to get it done fast.” Scar takes one of Dick’s hands and brings it over to hold the bowl. It’s a little heavy in his weak, tired arms, but he manages to hold on and bring it close to his chest. “You can barely hold that. At least if I feed you, you can relax and take breaks if your stomach feels upset.”

“Okay, whatever, you say,” Dick huffs. His arm is sluggish when he brings it up to grab the spoon. He takes it, struggling to wrap his hand around the metal handle as he as pulls it up out of the soup. There’s a slight resistance, considering the texture of the soup itself, hesitating at the new, subtle weight difference from the addition of the food. Dick only begins to raise it before Scar lets out a dramatic and irritated huff, snatching the bowl and spoon away.

Dick curls his lip slightly in a pout, letting his hands drop against the couch and opens his mouth wide enough to catch flies as he waits for the next spoonful.

“You are acting like a child.” Scar gives him the next bite very gently, easing it into his mouth. Doesn’t make the spoonful taste any better in the long run, but it’s better than having to struggle to hold a spoon.

“Whatever, _frajer_ ,” he mumbles under his breath with a little laugh. Scar pauses.

“What did you say?”

“I said whatever, _frajer_ ,” Dick says, louder this time, adding a nagging tilt to his voice and hopes he at least sort of sounds like the woman on TV.

“Do you know what that means?” Scar asks, sounding almost scandalized. Dick feels himself perk up at the astonishment in his voice as a small grin creeps across his face. _Goodbye Scar, hello Frajer._

“Oh, yes I do, _frajer._ I think it fits, no? With all this stuff you’re doing for me and that gooey love confession earlier. I think the name fits the bill for you,” Dick smirks, leaning up. He hopes he’s getting in Scar’s face. Dick, for a moment, feels an increase in the heat of the room and wonders if that’s Scar’s blush.

“You are saying stupid things,” Scar snaps, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“Oh,” Dick says softly, pausing for effect. “Do you like that new title?”

“I shouldn’t even have a title in the first place. We are not friends,” Scar insists, shoving the bowl into Dick’s hands. Dick grabs it, nearly letting it drop, but laughs in response.

“You’re right, we aren’t friends. We’re _boyfriends_ now.”

Scar storms away from him, mumbling curses in embarrassment and anger under his breath. Dick grins to himself before he starts trying to eat his soup, to varying degree of success. He manages to get a few good digs of the spoon into the mush, but when it comes to lifting it to his mouth, he has a problem. Rather than asking Scar to come back over and help him, he just lowers his head down to the bowl to shovel it in.

“Some boyfriend you are, Scar,” he mumbles into the now-cold soup.

Dick is convinced that potato soup is just adult-labeled baby food. All he needs to do is swallow the mush and it fills him up way better than soup ever did. He’s positive he’ll find the taste disgusting later. He’s never been a fan of solid food pureed to hell, but his stomach manages to settle somewhat. In the end Dick is just happy to eat at all.

Now that he’s thinking about the holes that used to contain his missing molars, he notices the undertaste of copper coloring every mouthful. It leaves his throat tight and mind vaguely thinking he ate something with hair in it by how uncomfortable he feels. Still, the hunger pains are gone, and Dick is ready to start exploring the remaining layout of the hotel room.

He reaches forward and waves his hand around, feeling for the table. He bumps his knuckles against the glass cup, freezing quickly so he doesn’t push it anymore and topple it over. Dick sets the bowl down onto the table and grips the top of the couch to help hoist himself up into a sitting position.

He hears footsteps heading in his direction, the leather soles clicking against the maybe marble floor, before Scar speaks. “Do you want to go to bed or look around further?”

“What’s the point of having a honeymoon suite if you don’t even show me around, _frajer_?” Dick grins as he holds out a hand for Scar to take it.

“This is the presidential suite, not the honeymoon suite,” Scar sighs, but takes his hand to help him up. “I told you that already.”

“You mean you lied to me about that already. I bet there’s a bunch of hearts decorating this place with mood lighting and everything. Makes sense why the TV’s only playing soaps, giving us a glimpse of our future.”

Dick is a little wobbly as he’s pulled to his feet, but he manages to stabilize fast. Scar sighs, not wanting to continue the conversation or counter Dick’s usual quips. That’s fine. It’s not like Dick wants to fight with Scar again over something as dumb as the presidential suite. He doesn’t know why he opened his mouth in the first place.

"If you're going to call me anything, I prefer it to be a respectable name," Scar says. "So call me Tiger."

Dick barks out a laugh. "Frajer and Scar aren't appropriate, but _Tiger_ is? What I'd give to have your sense of humor for a day."

He’s nervous, that much is obvious, and his chatterbox of a tongue is an old habit from childhood that he has yet to fully break. For whatever reason, he just can’t keep himself quiet; it’s a wonder he hasn’t spilled any classified information that way.

“The suite is big,” Tiger says, more than a little out of the blue as he holds Dick long enough for him to find his legs again. “We may have to keep making stops so you can sit down for a moment and get your balance back."

“Lame,” Dick whines. Tiger shifts next to him, bending over before snapping back up, nearly throwing off his balance as he offers him his cane. Dick takes it, letting Tiger lead him away from the table as he begins to swing around his cane, not particularly worried about running into anything—except maybe shelves again—with Tiger helping him around. He keeps his eyes closed, shutting out the painful whiteness of his recovering vision.

Together, the two of them move around the table with weird side steps until they’re free from objects on both sides. Once they’ve moved beyond the tight space, Dick asks, “So, how many phones are in this area?”

“Do you mean the living room area or the grand total in the suite?” Tiger lowers his hand down to Dick’s mid-back, no longer needing to hold him up with most his body. Dick relaxes into the hand.

“How about both?” Dick moves to the left. It’ll be better to continue investigating the kitchen. He can at least find some weapons in there, just in case.

“One in the living room and one in each of the three bedrooms, including yours. Four total.”

Just what Dick thought. He’s surprised all four phones are intact, but despite his paranoia, Tiger seems to be firmly on his side. At least, on his side enough to keep from killing him. But what might happen if he finds out Dick’s much higher up the food chain than some simple cop? Tiger has to be suspicious of him by now.

“Hm, guess I got a lot of calling to do, huh?” Dick jokes with a yawn. He hits his cane against something firm.

“Counter.” Tiger answers. “If you want to call your co-workers at the department I’m not going to stop you. While I’d appreciate you staying at least until your vision returns, if you decide to go, I will not keep you here.”

“You’ve said that about four times now. If you want me to leave, just say it.” Dick laughs, brittle and tense as he reaches out to touch the cold countertop.

“I don’t want you to leave, but I want to make sure that you fully understand the point I’m making. You either trust too easily, you’re too sick, or you think you’re in danger. Those are the only reasons as to why you are still here despite being left here for hours.” Tiger keeps the hand on his back, but very lightly taps his skin in warning when Dick grips the handle of the drawer.

Dick stiffens at the touch. He totally forgot how naked he is, only in his underwear, which makes him especially vulnerable to a lot of things. He takes a breath, tries to not focus on how Tiger’s soft fingers feel against the exposed skin of his back, and releases his hold on the drawer.

“Why can’t I open this?” He applauds himself for keeping his voice level as he runs his hand along the edge of the counter instead.

Tiger doesn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary concerning Dick’s behavior. “Well you can open it, but considering how unsteady you are, I would leave rifling through the drawers for when you feel better.”

“Oh yeah?” Dick asks with a laugh. “You scared I’m going to get my hands on something that you don’t want me to?”

“No, I’m afraid you’ll grip the silverware wrong and cut your hand open,” Tiger huffs. He slides his hand around to grab Dick’s hip, forcefully turning him away from the drawer and back toward the center of the room.

“Is that what’s in there? Knives?” Dick doesn’t go back to the kitchen, unwilling to put up much of a fight between his delicate state and Tiger’s firm grip on his hip.

“Yes,” Tiger says with ease. “And spoons and forks, but the knives are the ones I’m concerned about. They aren’t butter knives. They have very sharp and jagged teeth.”

Dick laughs. “You accuse me of being too trusting while you’re telling me where the weapons are.”

“I trust that you at least won’t try to kill me until you are able to get the answers you want.”

Dick frowns. He doesn’t like how Scar-turned-Tiger is always right.

The tour of the suite feels like it lasts two hours. Dick guesses that a half an hour may be more accurate, but it feels like it takes ages to sluggishly cling to the walls and slowly circle inward. He doesn’t run into any more shelves now that Tiger seems to have decided he’s learned his lesson.

Tiger had been right about taking constant breaks. Dick loses both his balance and nearly his stomach on several occasions. Tiger’s always quick to help him sit down somewhere and reorient himself, which is nice. He’s still a lot weaker than he looks, hoisting Dick around awkwardly in his arms. Dick quickly comes to prefer being dragged to swinging around in Tiger’s clumsy hold.

Still, they both manage to make their way around the entire suite. It’s enormous, with two bedrooms and offices, or maybe game rooms. Dick feels soft bean bag chairs and hard-edged bamboo, trying to get a rough mental image of everything in the area.

There’s a staircase tucked against the side of the living room. Tiger assures him it leads to a loft with a third bedroom, and while Dick would like to check it out—mostly because must be where Tiger sleeps—he’s drained of energy by the time he finds the stairs.

With the tour of the suite concluded and the pain medication quickly wearing off, Tiger decides it would be best if Dick went back to sleep. It’s evening already, somehow. Dick can’t tell if he’ll get a good night’s sleep after spending most of the day unconscious, but he feels too ill do anything else.

“When will I get actual clothes?” Dick asks when Tiger helps him back up into his own bed, propping him up against the pillows. “Not that I don’t appreciate these fine boxers, but it’s a little chilly without the extra layers.”

Tiger pauses while draping blankets over him. “Right,” he says after a moment, surprise in his voice. “I forgot you need clothes.”

Dick scoffs. “You remember to set towels down in case I throw up, you get me two different kinds of soup... but you forget clothes?”

“In my defense, I am used to taking care of patients who have clothes at their disposal when they come in,” Tiger says curtly, tripping over his words as he rushes them out. “I’ll get you some tomorrow while I’m out.”

“Don’t go buying anything naughty,” Dick quips with a smirk. Tiger sighs and whips something out. Dick has a feeling it’s more towels, a few times blasting Dick with quick gushes of air as Tiger lays them down around him.

After that, Tiger moves beside him, taking something plastic that jangles around in his hand before he pops off something with a snap. He pours a few of the objects out, pills, before he slides a fresh glass of water closer on the nightstand.

“Hold out your hand,” Tiger says.

“You’re not going to hand feed me these, too?”

Dick grins, but he does what he’s told. He hears Tiger exhale a short breath as he shoves the pills into his hand.

“As if you need anything else to hold against me. You can feed yourself pills, you did it earlier.”

Dick shrugs, not particularly willing to continue to the argument. He reaches up and pops the pills into his mouth, keeping them against the back of his tongue while he holds out his free hand to take the glass of water. The glass is cool against his fingers and the water even colder when he presses it to his lips and drinks it back, swallowing the pills with ease. The water is more than a little nice against his throat, and now that he can handle the cold, it makes his head feel even better. Despite Tiger warning him not to fill up on water, he takes several bigger mouthfuls until the glass is nearly empty.

He offers it back to Tiger, who takes it without a word and leaves the room. There’s the click of the light, and Dick refuses to open his eyes and see if the whiteness still has a hold of his vision.

He falls asleep easily— Ha, wouldn’t that be nice?

It actually takes about forty minutes for the pills to kick in. While he waits, he hears Tiger taking calls in the other room, nice enough to keep his voice down. Dick misses most of the conversation, but does manage to catch several whispers, all in Arabic, things like “England,” “compromised,” and “Varna.” The words make little sense to him taken out of context, but Dick stores them away with all the other snippets of information he’s learned from his time in this weird post-kidnapping limbo status so far. He hopes Leonid can put together the puzzle pieces he’s found well enough.

When Dick does eventually fall asleep he, thankfully, doesn’t think of hairy Leonid and teeth waterfalls or, upsettingly, candy stripe nurses with tan skin and scars. Instead, there’s a small moment of a dream where Dick sees himself in a pinstripe black suit, climbing to the rooftop of his old training outpost on a windy night to get a better look at the purple and white hues of the Milky Way as it tears apart the inky black of the sky. He can hear the rustling of the oak trees that surround the small-town campus, losing their leaves as the chill of the early autumn breeze bites at the skin of his cheeks.

When Dick reaches the top of the old brick building, covered in a thin layer of dirt and crinkly amber leaves, he sees a figure standing alone at the other edge. Dick can’t tell who it is from how far forward on the roof they are, but their head is tilted up at the sky, arching back as far as they can to get a wider look. Dick feels himself drawn to the silhouette of a person, so instead of finding his own spot on the roof to look at the stars, he walks toward them like a magnet.

He shoves his hands in his pockets as they start to sting from the low temperature, pausing inches behind the boy who is wearing standard issue police gear. Missing from his hip holster, he already knows, is a standard-issue Glock, empty of ammunition. Beyond that, inside the shirt pocket is a folded-up piece of paper that’s been crumpled up, shoved in and out of pockets and binders until the letters were worn down and the paper’s gone soft. Dick knows this because as he catches the face of the young “police officer” staring up at the sky with stars illuminated in his pale blue eyes, it’s himself.

His younger self, his past self, looking up at the stars with a bored frown on his face that doesn’t budge as Dick, present Dick, comes to a halt along the outer edge of his vision. Young Dick’s hands are folded across his chest, hands tucked under his armpits as he looks up at the stars and the clouds of the galaxy, lips closed tight. His hair is wet, bangs lying flat against his forehead while the rest of the strands hang down, with beads of water dripping off. He smells of gunsmoke and the knuckles on his hands are torn open and bloody. Dick knows this.

Just as he knows the younger boy straightens out his back after another moment, when a star he assumed to be a comet moves slow enough that he realizes it’s nothing but another satellite. He uncrosses his arms and shoves them into his pockets, back slouched as Dick takes another step forward. Younger Dick pulls his arm out of his pocket, holding the pitiful piece of paper that was once a letter, and stares at it.

Dick lurches forward, only stopping when his feet seem to cement themselves to the roof as the younger boy opens it up. There’s a scoff, tired anger that’s borderline distress as he crumples it up, takes a step back and chucks it off the building.

Doesn’t need to see the wind pick it up, to know it carries the wad of paper beyond the fence that borders on the edge of the pool. To know that it hits concrete of the pool yard, rolling as it falls into the dark, but illuminated water to grow soggy and get sucked into the pool drain.

Dick doesn’t need to know that an hour later this young ghost of the past will end up scaling the fence, throwing off his gear off before he reaches a hand into the pool, waving it around the water in the filter where it will come back with mushy clumps of white slop clinging to it. That the destruction of the letter, the only letter _he_ ever wrote Dick, will keep him up at night for weeks on end.

Consumed by still healing grief and monumental loss.

But for now, on the rooftop of a dream turned memory, Younger Dick turns around and faces him, satisfied with his display of temporary confidence. He locks eyes with Dick and straightens himself out, looking every bit like the vicious, anger-prone man Bruce claimed him to be the day he stole Dick’s agent status. When he speaks, his voice is a mixture of both young, pre-puberty highness and the low tones of his matured, adult voice.

“ _You’re going to fuck everything up like you did with Jason_.”

Dick wakes up. Not as violently as yesterday, but the dream ends there, burning at the edges the same way a photograph in a fireplace does. When there’s nothing but a void of blackness, Dick’s aches and pains pull his tired mind back to reality It starts at the tips of his toes and finishes at the sore top of his head. He opens his eyes slowly, staring up at the now-distinct but slightly blurry grey ceiling.

Dick lays still for a couple minutes, still slightly in the fuzzy dream state he has yet to fully wake up from. He counts back from 10, trying to remember where he is. When he flicks his eyes down, pain shoots through his body like lightning, leaving him near-breathless with a wet gasp of fear and shock.

He sits up. Immediately regrets it. Lays back down. He can feel the pressure of the mattress pressing up against the gauze pads and his sewed-up gashes. He can feel the tear-jerking stretch of the tight and cracked burned skin and it leaves him gasping. His ribs feel way too close, and he can hardly breathe without feeling like he’s sucking in lungfuls of glass. Dick has been accused of being over-dramatic in his workplace before, but waking up this morning _hurts._

There’s no nausea, which is only a momentary relief, because the utter hell that is the dreaded second day of recovery is totally awful. Whatever pain Dick felt yesterday pales in comparison to now; everything feels like it’s being acted on him again. Dick one second finds himself gasping for air in bed, nerves tingling like they’re on fire, and then in the kitchen, gripping the handle of a blade as something white hot flashes in his skin.

He can make out the outlines of blurry furniture bathed in shades of grey as he searches for figures in masks in a near-silent house. Something drips against the ground with wet splats. He can smell the faint lingering of sweet, charred meat tickling the back of his nose, along with the damp and dark imposing atmosphere hanging over his back. There’s a thumping all over his body, as if every limb and piece of him possess their own heartbeat, but Dick zeroes in on the quick and painful one. It originates in his left hand, which is when he discovers he’s holding a knife, as something warm and wet drips down his palm.

That snaps him out of it. He drops the knife, which clangs against the dark grey tile floor as his mind takes him out of the cellar and back into the silence of the empty suite. Bright red blood streaks down his arm from his palm, dripping onto the floor. Dick turns around to face the counter, recalling its layout with his palms. He runs his right hand along it until he finds the drop where the steel sink is. He reaches his hand up and turns on the faucet before shoving his wounded hand under the running water.

Still hyped on adrenaline from his sudden panic in the bedroom, he ignores the throbbing in his hand, holding it beneath the water as he tries to refocus his train of thought. He tries to chase away the shadow of Roman that lurks in the back of his mind, but the suite feels tight and closed-off. He hates it.

In his search for something to dry his hand with, he knocks a stack of dishes onto the floor, wincing at the sound. Eventually he finds a stack of napkins, grabs a fistful, and pulls his hand out of the water, pressing the paper hard against the open wound.

Call someone. He needs to call someone. He needs backup.

He moves out of the kitchen, nearly sliding onto his ass from the combination of the tile floor and his woozy leg. He’s still so incredibly weak. But he makes it out of the kitchen, clutching his hands together as he presses against the wall for support, making the trek back to the bedroom he doesn’t even remember leaving. He throws himself onto the bed, reaching forward to grab the phone, pulling it off the receiver before he hesitates.

The first thought that goes through his mind is to call Tiger.

Not Leonid, not even the police station. Tiger. Safety will not come with Agent Leonid, who will report his terror to their higher-ups out of concern. Leonid’s worry for his anxiousness will get Dick thrown out of field work so fast it will make his head spin. The cops will fare no better. It’s why Dick didn’t call Leonid yesterday, and won’t call Leonid until his vision has returned and Tiger presents him with a clean bill of health. Being a field agent is his life, and it’s why he trusts Tiger to help scare his demons away until he can put a lid on it safely.

Tiger didn’t leave a phone number, probably expecting Dick to leave, so he instead calls the lobby. It takes him three times to find the right button with his shaky fingers, sucking in a breath and holding it, one, two, three, before letting it go.

“Hello, how may I be of assistance?” The perky voice of the receptionist reminds him to switch to Russian.

“Hi,” Dick says, voice high and happy. He swallows. “Are you able to give me the recently called numbers to this phone?”

“I’m sorry, we don’t have those records on hand. Is there anything else we can do for you today?” Dick doesn’t believe that. He bites his lip at the lazy worker.

“Yes, can I get the phone number for the contact for the room?” Dick asks. He doesn’t bother hiding his impatience.

There’s a scoff. “Your personal phone contact?”

“I don’t have a good memory, and I lost my phone. I want to try calling it to see if I can hear it.” Dick forces the chipper tone into his voice.

“Of course, sir.” There’s a break and the audible typing on the other end of the computer. Dick chews on the edge of his lip. “The number is 7 (940) 245-6779. Will that be all?”

“Yes, thank you.” Dick hangs up and then picks up the phone. He presses the buttons carefully, wanting to get it right on the first try and not the second or third. When it goes to dial tone he feels the slide of warm liquid drip down his wrist. He presses his hand hard against the covers. Sucks for the room bill, but it’s better than bleeding out.

The phone picks up on the third ring and Dick sits up. There’s silence before a soft and quiet voice asks in Arabic, “Hello?”

“It’s me, where are you?” Dick doesn’t bother hiding his urgency.

“What’s wrong?” Tiger keeps his tone neutral and quiet. Dick can tell he’s under surveillance so he doesn’t take the non-concern in his voice to heart.

“I cut my hand,” he says. His voice is short and he chokes on the last word. Tiger hesitates.

“How deep is it?”

Dick didn’t get that great of a look at it, but, despite the amount of blood, it doesn’t feel that deep.

“It’s shallow.”

“Keep pressure on it with toilet paper, or gauze if you can find any, until the bleeding stops. Keep it elevated. I’ll dress it when I get home.” Tiger takes a breath before he asks in a lower voice, “Are you alright?”

“No,” Dick’s voice cracks. “I thought… the pain, I was back, and all of sudden I was in the kitchen holding a knife and I don’t know what happened, I must have blanked out, how can I work like this? How can I be normal like this?” Dick babbles, breath coming short and shallow.

“Dick, Dick,” Tiger interrupts, cool and collected. “You need to take slower and deeper breaths. You’re going to hyperventilate.”

“How am I supposed to be okay after this?” Dick chokes.

“It takes time and it takes help, you have to understand this. You will not be better immediately. There may be small occurrences that send you into a state of panic. Only time will tell if these will become permanent or go away after the week is up. I can’t tell you for certain because I don’t know.” Tiger pauses before he continues. “I would consider seeing a therapist. Surely the department has one on hand for men and women like you to use.”

Dick notices that he doesn’t say police department or station. But he gets distracted with the word “therapist.” Dick pales. Tiger might as well read off his last rights.

“No, there has to be something else,” he argues. He tightens his fists and grits his teeth as the palm of his left hand protests the motion.

“Therapists are required to keep their information confidential, Dick, they will not tell your superiors anything you tell them.”

“Going to a therapist is going to screw me over harder than not seeing one,” Dick snaps. The blanket beneath his left palm feels more wet than dry, so he moves it to a different spot on the bed, grimacing at the tug from the dried blood making the fabric stick to his skin.

“I’m positive you won’t get fired for seeing a therapist, that’s grounds for a discrimination case,” Tiger assures him. He speaks quick and short. Dick knows the phone call has gone on longer than Tiger or his bosses must have intended.

“No, but they can make me a desk jockey instead,” Dick grumbles, lying back against the bed with a helpless whine.

Tiger sighs, long and tired. It must have taken him years to suppress his irritation even this well, from the sounds of it.

“Dick, I am sorry for the state you have found yourself in, truly I am. I cannot fix everything that has wounded you. I can do my best to fix the problems that are mostly superficial, but I can’t sew you back up to the man you once were. I can only offer you suggestions of how to ease these symptoms you have. Whether you like them and feel the need to accept any of them is up to you, but if you refuse all of mine you should find your own solution elsewhere. I am not made of answers.”

Dick frowns. Something terrible, made of sharp thorns and rough bark, seems to be coiling around the insides of his chest, wrapping themselves around his lungs and heart as he listens. It tightens snake-like and evil around them and squeezes, knocking the air out of him momentarily as he fights to get it back. In the recesses of his mind, the young man from the dream tuts him in a cold and unimpressed voice. “ _Fuck-up._ ”

Dick closes his eyes tightly, barely able to swallow past the lump in his throat before he speaks again.

“You’re right, my bad,” he says, voice steady and chipper, the same way he talked to the receptionist. “Sorry to keep you from everyone, just wanted to know how to treat these damn knife wounds.”

“Dick,” Tiger warns.

“No, no, my bad, I’ll hang up and take those pills of mine or something. They’re still on the nightstand, right?” Dick doesn’t bother waiting for a response, throwing himself to the side so he can slam the phone down against the receiver. He rolls onto his stomach, shoves his face into the pillow, and yells.

_You temper-tantrum-throwing moron, what kind of a response was that?_

He yells into the pillow several more times, sucking in several deeper breaths once he runs out of air from the previous scream. He botched up that phone call bad. Dick pushes himself away from the pillow, sitting up on his knees before he grabs it by the edges and whips to his left against the wall. It hits the boring, light grey walls with a pitiful thump before it slides down to the tile floor. Dick doesn’t know what he’s more sick of, the coloration of the room or the way he gets emotional at the drop of a hat.

 _Your emotional issues are in line with symptoms of a brain injury and trauma._ Dick remembers hearing Tiger say that… yesterday? Two days ago? Fuck, he doesn’t remember.

 _Calm the hell down,_ he chides himself, taking a deep breath that trembles with a light “Whoa.” He breathes out through his mouth. In through his nose. Out through his mouth.

While the malignant shadow of Roman has hidden itself away again, hiding deep within the recesses of Dick’s mind where it lurks in patience for its next chance to spring, the anxiety that twists and turns his stomach into knots has shifted. The idea of admitting he needs a therapist to help him because Tiger can’t give him a magical cure-all for whatever fear is plaguing the back of his mind startles him. He’s fine. He doesn’t need to talk to someone, lying back on those dumb lounge couches as someone asks him how he feels five times in a row. Not to mention the idea of someone hearing his life story, private information, to ask him to admit embarrassing answers— _Did you cry when Roman hit you?_ —is not something that he wants to deal with.

He pushes himself off the bed, standing up. His body still hurts like mad, but the whirlwind inside his mind is more than a little distracting. And the cocktail of adrenaline and fear still coursing in his veins, telling him he’s in danger, certainly isn’t helping.

That’s when Dick decides to catalogue the room. It’s an old focusing technique and he hopes it works now. Thank God his vision has finally allowed him to distinguish colors and shapes.

The bed that sits in the middle of room takes up much of the small space. Dick notes the black blanket and white sheets that peek out from underneath them. The pillows are multiple, all striped white and blue and ugly as hell. There’s a dresser along the right wall of the door frame facing inward, with a polished top that’s so reflective could act as a mirror. Above it, mounted to the wall, is a gigantic plasma TV. There’s no remote on the dresser beneath it, so Dick goes ahead and assumes it’s in one of the dresser drawers.

There’s a window, small and shut, high above the bed surrounded by white curtains that are pushed to the end of the black pole they’re attached to. The door to the bathroom is shut, while the door that leads to the walk-in closet is slightly open, but dark on the inside. Dick can’t tell what’s in there, and the creeping darkness terrifies him. He pulls back his arm and pads along the wall towards the door.

It creaks loudly as he pushes it forward, and Dick straightens himself out before he puts a hand inside and flips the light on. He squints at the sudden brightness, moving fully into the doorway, only to see… nothing. Just walls lined with drawers and poles meant to hold clothes.

Dick’s thundering heart finally starts to relax at the lack of a threat taking advantage of the darkness of the room. He sighs and presses his palms against his forehead. This is insane. He’s never been this jumpy since the day he became a field agent. And even then, it was more from excitement than actual nerves.

He drops his hands, one reaching out to rub his arm.

He feels a little better. Knowing his surroundings, even with the haze on his vision, gives him a little more control of his situation. He’s still annoyingly vulnerable, including his lack of clothes, and he needs something to act as a safety net. He needs to know the exits, needs to find a way to escape.

His arms and legs are starting to burn again as the panic-filled rush of adrenaline wears off. Pills, he needs to take the pills and then actually see the suite for what it really is. Dick leaves the doorway and moves into the bedroom and over to the nightstand. He grabs the pills where they wait on the top next to a glass of water, that he doesn’t realize is even there until he gets close enough. He takes the pills and pops them into his mouth, only coughing a little as they go down.

Food. He needs food. Dick thinks back to the mess he left in the kitchen with a grimace. Even with his newly re-acquired eyesight, he doubts that he’ll be able to see the glass shards from the dirty dishes he knocked off the counter earlier. He’ll go for the fridge near the kitchen’s exit instead. He takes a step forward on shaky legs as he moves out of the bathroom, arm braced against the ugly gray wall. He has absolutely no idea how he made it out this far the first time, but supposes that panic is one hell of a drug.

When the living room appears before him, he takes stock again. A big sliding glass door to his left. It leads out to what looks like a concrete balcony. Dick can’t see much, but he tags that as one possible escape route. He spots the couch, white with what look like fur lined pillows on either end. The table in front of it has a pane of glass as the top, standing on black wire feet. He still can’t make out any details, but it’s more than he could see before.

Dick spots the TV, a mirror of the one inside of his bedroom, long and mounted to the wall. He spots the traitorous shelves as they stand out away from the wall with their obvious brown coloration that contrasts heavily with the muted grey tone of the wall. There’s a dresser-turned-TV-stand with blindingly shiny handles. Lots of annoying and ugly things.

He can make a furniture barrier to buy himself some time to sneak out the balcony. Leap into the opposing neighbor’s from there, or, in a way riskier move, drop down to the level below and hope he holds on. At this point he doesn’t even mind if he can’t manage it. But the thought of splatting on the ground from a high fall in only underwear is a little embarrassing, he’ll admit.

Dick spots the stairs, rails and sticking out of the wall like planks that go up to the small overhanging loft.

He straightens up at the sight. That would give him a whole view of the apartment and allow him to see everyone and everything that comes in. From what he can tell, the loft has two walls, the back and the right side, with the left being open to the stairs and a rail in the front that allows one to look out at the living room without risk of falling. Dick will be safer up there without having to worry about attacks coming from the back, and he’ll have the option of a quick escape through the front entrance of the suite if an enemy were to come inside through the door.

That and Dick has the higher ground in this scenario, which means he has a better chance of landing a successful attack. The loft it is.

He forgoes exploring the rest of the suite, already feeling weak and extremely run down from his earlier display of energy. As he walks toward the stairs he pauses and turns to face the kitchen, inching his way over to open the fridge.

It’s mostly empty, with a sad excuse for a banana sitting on the upper shelf, almost completely brown. It’ll do. Dick grabs it, starting to peel it open before he even finishes shutting the door with his shoulder. He ignores the smell as best he can, something he has never been a fan of, as he takes a small bite.

It’s incredibly sweet, almost like flavored candy. Dick curls his lip in a frown but forces himself to take another bite, chewing up the barely firm mush with a gross squelch before he swallows. He takes two more before he sets it on the counter. At least he has some food in him. That’s better than nothing at all.

He makes his way back toward the stairs, lowering himself to his knees when he reaches the bottom. Without the strength adrenaline had given him earlier, he doesn’t know how well the wall will keep him balanced when climbing; better to crawl and not risk falling off.

He moves onto the first step. The strange suspended tile planks are barely stuck in the wall; Dick doesn’t know how these things will be able to hold all his weight. He pushes that thought aside, more concerned with getting to the safety of Tiger’s loft as he lowers himself even further onto his knees.

He crawls up the second step, leaning his body forward so his hands can find a stable grip on the next step so he can heave himself up. It’s awkward and the position makes his wounds burn with pain. By the time he gets midway up the stairs, his chest feels like someone’s pounding it with a sledgehammer. He lies down against the steps, clutching one like a lifeline as he waits to adjust. _Yikes, that hurts._

He doesn’t have all day to wait there. Gritting his teeth, he pulls himself up with mostly his arms, gasping in shock when his cracked ribs rub viciously against the stairs. It’s like he can’t escape the pain no matter how hard he tries.

It feels like an eternity before he reaches the top of the stairs. But when he does, he grabs the ledge of the loft floor, carpeted with a plush fabric, and heaves himself up onto it with shaky arms. He lays there for a minute, curled up in a ball as he pants from the exertion. The air whistles past his teeth as he tries to ignore the pain lancing through his back and arms. He doesn’t even want to give his chest any more attention with just how much it hurts.

He lifts his head to take stock. The bed is unmade, a white mattress laying on the floor covered partway by a dark brown blanket bunched up and in wrinkled heaps. Something is partly open, a black and boxy shape filled with several different items of varying colors. Dick guesses it must be Tiger’s suitcase.

He shrinks back from the sight and almost makes to return downstairs. It feels wrong, intruding on a space so personal to Tiger while he’s away and unable to shield it. The thought, however, passes in favor of a new one. Tiger is someone who he can trust with honesty. Tiger is a caregiver to him, and right now, with him being gone, Dick is alone and scared of mental shadows on the walls that are trying to convince him they’re real.

So he pulls himself up by his elbows, then sits back once he’s made it to the top. He stands up on shaky feet, remaining crouched to avoid the devastation a fall would bring him as he slinks forward toward the bed. When he makes it there, he eases himself down onto the mattress, curling up on the soft cotton sheets that smell vaguely of cologne—sharp, citrusy, and distinctly Tiger.

Dick presses his head against the pillows, reaching down with one hand to grab the blanket and pull it up around him. Warm and safely confined, he shuts his eyes. There’s something inherently childish about it, taking up Tiger’s bed while he is gone, but the smell is soothing to his heightened, on-edge senses. Dick has no doubt that he may feel the same way if he crawled into agent Leonid’s bed right now. Hell, even agent Yamashiro’s (though her spicy perfume is more than a little overwhelming on a good day). He’s glad he feels as safe with Tiger as he does with any of them.

He falls asleep without meaning to. The mattress is comfortable, much more than the rock of a bed in his guest room. The warmth of the covers and the drowsiness that comes from the effects of his medicine lull him to sleep in the safety net of Tiger’s scent. The sleep he falls into this time is not a sudden blackout like the previous ones. Dick begins to feel his limbs grow heavy and his eyes try to stay shut when he hears distant footsteps moving up and down the hallway.

And when he does fall into a deep enough sleep, he is aware of the bizarre dreams that are more like dreams now—just a little odd, like going out to buy a dog with a crate of oranges in hand. But it brings a deep and solid rest to his bones, so when he finds himself waking up to the door opening and Tiger’s voice calling out for him, he doesn’t panic.

Instead, he curls up deeper into the blankets and tries to wish himself back into the pleasantness of his sleep. However, the clicking of Tiger’s leather shoes against the tile of the room keep pulling him back into the world of wakefulness. Dick cracks an eye open, vision still blurry as he hears doors get thrown open and Tiger continually saying his name every few seconds, along with the obligatory, “Where are you?”

Dick wants to prop himself up so he can get a look over the edge of the loft to see if he can catch Tiger as he walks back and forth between the two wings of the suite. The rising pitch in his voice is easy to hear, which perks Dick up enough to identify the tone slowly seeping into Tiger’s voice as worry. He finds himself smirking at that, dopey grin stretching across his cheeks.

“Aw, Tiger cares about me.”

It takes him a moment to realize that, yup, he said that out loud. His voice is rough, cracks at the end of his sentence, and he sounds drunk the way he slurs the words together. He doesn’t remember sounding like this after waking up the previous times in this suite. He hopes he didn’t vocalize anything when he was asleep before, which kept his voice from sounding so tired.

Dick tilts his head to the side when he hears frantic footsteps running up the stairs, opening both eyes to catch the blurry figure of Tiger as he comes to a halt near the top. Dick can’t tell what his face looks like, but the way he freezes up, still slightly shaking, is telling.

“Dick?” Tiger says, very slightly out of breath. “I— How did you get up here?”

Dick pales at the dawning realization of where he is right now. “Well, I, uh, crawled.”

“Up to the loft?” Tiger says in disbelief. “Why did you go all the way up to the loft?”

Dick bites his lip. Panicked images of his rush to find someplace minutely safe within the suite stand out to him as possible explanation for Tiger; he’ll understand the tactical advantage of having the high ground. But Dick doesn’t want Tiger to know that he had another moment of panic while he was at work, especially with how their last conversation ended.

“I wanted to see what was up here,” he lies, helped by his sleepy voice.

Tiger drops the topic for when he replies. “Well, that was very dangerous to do in your state. You should have waited for me to get home so I could have carried you up. However, what’s done is done. I’m just glad to see that you are alright.”

Dick hums in response, but stiffens when Tiger moves to step closer. He feels himself trying to sink further into the mattress, unwilling to move back downstairs. Tiger pauses and holds out his hand.

“I just want to look at your palm, then you can go back to sleep.”

Dick feels his cheeks grow hot. He lifts the hand he had forgotten he sliced open in the first place. The only thing that reminds him that he has a cut there now is the slight itching sensation that burns in the center of his hand, as well as the dark reddish-brown stains all over.

Tiger moves to sit down on the bed beside him. Dick sits up when the mattress dips down, feeling the sudden urge to at least be proper for this so he has the most amount of room to work on his hand. Tiger takes it gently, looking it over with careful fingers.

“Did you have a good nap?” he asks. He turns the hand and examines the back.

“I’m still tired, actually,” Dick admits. Tiger nods in consideration and lets go of his hand.

“You’ll only need some gauze over it, not stitches, thankfully. I would not recommend picking up knives the same way in the future.” Tiger stands up. “I’ll go get the supplies and a cloth to get rid of the old blood. Would you like anything while I am downstairs?”

Dick goes to shake his head, but his stomach, empty and starving, yanks the chain leading to his brain. “Some food would be nice.”

“I’ll make you some dinner after I clean up your hand. How is your eyesight now?”

“Everything is really blurry.” Dick lays back on the bed, pulling the covers up around him. His cocoon is warm and he seriously risks falling asleep again should he not be careful.

“But you aren’t seeing in only one color anymore, that’s really good,” Tiger says with a smile. “You’re recovering well. You should be able to see fully by tomorrow, if not by the end of the week. If there are any lasting vision problems that won’t fade I would see a doctor, an actual one at the hospital instead of myself.”

“Ah, you admitting you aren’t a doctor to me now? After all that impressive stuff you did?” Dick teases, half-hearted and more sleepy than sarcastic.

“No,” Tiger laughs. “You’d just get better treatment by someone who had an office with the tools to look at you and diagnose you correctly, rather than myself who is making judgements based off symptoms I know that are in line with a head injury. I’m sure you’ll regain your vision back, perhaps with only minor changes.”

Tiger heads back down to the main floor as Dick curls up tighter with the blankets. The news is reassuring, that he’ll regain all his vision, if maybe not able to see as far as he used to. Maybe Tiger would be able to recommend him to a good eye doctor, considering the fact he needs glasses. Dick furrows his brows; does Tiger need glasses? Those several times they met each other here in Russia he wasn’t wearing any glasses. Of course, he could have easily been wearing contacts. He could ask about it, maybe, if glasses don’t turn out to be another classified subject.

Dick turns his head back toward the stairs when he hears Tiger climbing them again. There’s the squishing of liquid in a container, water most likely, that grows louder as he approaches and sits down beside him.

“May I see your hand?”

Dick holds it out for him. Tiger takes it gently, turning it over and around in his palm with a light click of his tongue as he considers the wound. “This may sting a bit.”

He presses a wet washcloth against his hand, dragging it across his palm carefully as cleans up the dried, crusty leftover blood. He works in silence, a little firmer with his touches that travel along the outside of his hand, feather-light when he gets close to the cut. He takes a few minutes to clean the area around the cut, moving away before he tears something plastic open. Dick can’t tell what it is; just a white square, as far as he can see. Tiger presses it to his palm and it reignites the painful itching in his hand, making him twitch and subconsciously try to pull his arm back.

“Sorry.” Tiger keeps a firm grip on his hand. “This is an antiseptic wipe; I’m just making sure it doesn’t get infected.”

Dick doesn’t bother with a response, letting out a curt breath with his nose, and instead tries to focus on the ceiling while Tiger continues running the cloth up and down his palm. When he takes it away, Dick feels warm liquid drip down his hand and onto his fingers. He grimaces at the realization that the blood from the reopened cut his going to get on Tiger’s mattress, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Tiger presses a large square of cotton against the center of his hand before he wraps some tape around it several times.

“There. You can use the hand, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Bending around may make the pain more noticeable.”

Dick nods. “Thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” Tiger assures him, soft and still apologetic. There’s an awkward intake of breath and hesitation before Tiger speaks again. “I want to say I’m sorry for our earlier phone conversation. I was unnecessarily rude to you, considering the position you were in and the onset of pain. I rushed the conversation because I was worried about being found out at work and that is not an excuse for being curt with you when you were looking for reassurance. So, for that I am sorry.”

The apology comes out so easily that Dick has to blink in surprise and confusion. The fuck? Were they the members of the same conversation?

“You… Uh, thanks, I guess? You do know that I was the one who hung up on you, right?” Dick raises an eyebrow. “Are you apologizing because it’s easier on you to be the one that’s sorry?”

Tiger straightens his back. “I— What do you mean by that?”

“Well, it just seems like you’re the only one who ever apologizes around here. Why is that? I was the one that got mad on the phone.”

“Only because I was snapping at you for being on the phone. Why would you have to apologize for someone else’s rude behavior?” Tiger asks. “That wouldn’t make any sense.”

“See, that’s what I’m trying to figure out. Why are you the one that’s always sorry? Is it a guilt thing?” Dick’s been starting to wonder about that recently. While Tiger’s admittance to the use of him as a pawn was perfectly natural, they do seem to have opposing goals for the outcome of the entire situation, but that doesn’t mean that deep down Tiger doesn’t feel bad about it despite claiming otherwise.

“I don’t know what you mean. What would I have to be guilty over?” Tiger says in irritation.

Dick shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe you saying sorry makes it easy for you? Absolves you of any guilt from whatever happens in the future, or makes people soften their looks at you? That Tiger is always the considerate one, he’s always so concerned for me. Makes you seem like a retail employee or Disneyland worker.”

“Now you aren’t making sense,” Tiger says, but Dick can tell from the light tone of his voice that maybe his tired assumption wasn’t so far off. Nice to have something on Tiger for a change.

He shrugs and rolls over in bed with a loud yawn. He doesn’t have time to play therapist today, and he isn’t concerned about finding out that answer out of all the ones that currently exist in their relationship. Not that their relationship is anything beyond what is convenient for the two of them. No matter how much the comfort of having Tiger so close to him makes him feel.

Dick pauses at the thought.

The thought of feeling so safe with Tiger is an alarming one, extremely so. It isn’t smart of him to form a soft spot. Should Dick find himself and Tiger on the opposite ends of a gun barrel in the future, the hesitation that can come from choking on these bizarre fuzzy feelings could easily get him killed. All Tiger needs is a second, and despite his apparent concern for Dick’s well-being, that in no way means he cares. Dick needs to start feeling the same way.

Dick hears glass clinking around as Tiger sweeps it off the floor and into a waiting dustpan. He chews on his lip as he listens in. It’s hard to think of Tiger as anything other than a friend. Sure, their meetings before this haven’t gone exactly as expected. Dick doubts that Leonid has forgotten about being pepper sprayed in the face. But there was such little time to explain anything in any sort of proper setting. Or professional one. Dick still doesn’t know what Tiger wants from him at all, a fact that’s sure to drive him slowly insane, if not angry every time he sees his (admittedly handsome) face.

_Fuck it._

Dick rolls over in bed, shutting his eyes as he tries to fall back asleep. He doesn’t need stupid shit like that invading his sleep in the form of nightmares. He just wants to have some peace tonight.

His eyesight will probably be good enough for him to leave tomorrow. Even if it isn’t, Dick has to go. He’s stayed way too long, long enough for Roman to skip town if he was worried about the cops snooping in on his former base of operations. He needs to get back in touch with agent Leonid, tell him what he knows and get off these damn animal pills.

He mulls over whether he should give Tiger any warning. After seeing the man’s near-panic attack earlier when he couldn’t find him, he’s hesitant to just run off. Dick decides to tuck away the decision for later; he has to focus on getting some rest right now.

That is, until he hears Tiger walking up the stairs to the loft to join him once more.

“Hey,” Tiger says softly when he reaches the top of the stairs. “You still hungry?”

Dick wants to say he’s tired, but his stomach growls loudly in response before he can force his thick tongue to form words. “I suppose that answers your question?”

“Well, enough,” Tiger replies, voice heavy and still a little awkward. Must be, considering the strange note their last conversation ended on. They’ve had a lot of those lately. “I don’t have a meal for you, but I do have quite a bit of snack food. Easy things like banana and oatmeal. Try not to eat more than you can handle.”

Dick curls his lip at the mention of banana. He’s going to get PTSD centered around bananas if he isn’t more careful. He nods. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Tiger says and walks over to the end of the bed, sitting on the side of the mattress once more. Dick smells the sweet cinnamon of the oatmeal and the disgusting undertone of banana before he sees the blurry glass tray in Tiger’s hands.

He rolls over fully, propping himself up on the pile of pillows at the head of the bed, and holds his hand out to take one of the food items. Tiger doesn’t ask which he wants first and gives him the banana. Dick grimaces, but accepts it all the same. He sets the plate down on his lap, taking one of the gooey wedges of banana and popping into his mouth. He shudders at the mushy taste of it, but it slides down easily enough. He eats a few more bites quickly, trying to get it over with the same way a child might.

When he can feel no more slimy banana pieces, he gives the plate back to Tiger, who gives him the warm bowl.

“Wouldn’t it have been smarter to give me this first while it was warmer?” Dick laughs as he scoops up a spoonful of the tasty mush.

“It was too hot, I thought this gave it the proper time to cool.” Tiger shrugs. “I’m still trying to make sure that the food I give you doesn’t make you nauseous.”

“Doctor knows best, I guess,” Dick sighs and eats the spoonful. The way the cinnamon tastes on his banana tongue is immediately satisfying. It wipes away the gross aftertaste of banana and he makes sure to eat another bite soon after just because of how much better it tastes in comparison.

“I’m not going to fight with you,” Tiger says, shutting down the bait. “You’re tired, you should rest. However, if you would like to change clothes, I bought some for you on the way home.”

Dick perks up at that, turning his head to look at Tiger as best he can. “Really?”

“Yes, really. You’ve been wearing those boxers for two days now, it’s time you changed.”

Dick grins and scoops another spoonful into his mouth. “Is it naughty stuff?”

Tiger sputters in response. “How your moods can change so dramatically is starting to make me worry this was a pre-existing condition. _No_ , I didn’t buy you anything naughty, I simply got you a plain shirt and some sweatpants to wear.”

“Does the shirt say anything funny on it, like ‘I’m with stupid’?” Dick teases, setting down the bowl for a moment.

“No,” Tiger sighs. “It’s just a white shirt. This is for you to sleep in, not to impress anyone on the street.”

Dick nods. That works out; with those clothes, he can easily be passed off as a morning jogger. All that’s left are the shoes. Dick doesn’t want to give Tiger any hints of his plans to leave the following morning. He marks his mental checklist to stop by the pool tomorrow if the hotel has one, see if he can steal someone’s shoes. He’ll make sure to see if Tiger has any extra pairs, not that he thinks they share the same foot size.

“So where will you be sleeping tonight?” Dick asks. He’s not moving. He very much likes Tiger’s bed.

There’s a bark of laughter as Tiger chokes out a response. “I can’t say I didn’t expect that, seeing how well you seem to be sleeping in my bed, but I am all the same. I plan to sleep up here, on the floor to make sure you don’t go rolling off and out down the steps.”

Dick doesn’t believe him. He thinks Tiger likes the loft for the exact same reason he likes it, for tactical advantage. But Dick is a good friend/partner(?) so he says nothing.

He eats in silence for the rest of his dinner, coming close to licking the bowl clean when he finishes because of how hungry he is. But he resists, handing his dishes back to Tiger before he lays down fully on the bed. He feels a lot better after eating, something Tiger seems to pick up on by his next question.

“Will you be leaving tomorrow?”

Dick freezes up. He’s certain that his body language has given away his position on the matter already—it wasn’t like he was trying to subdue his reaction any—but his mouth dries up when he answers. “I’m not sure. I think I might.”

Tiger hums lightly in agreement. “Well, if your eyesight is still extremely blurry by tomorrow, I would recommend staying until you can at least make out objects directly in front of you clearly.”

“I think you’re getting too attached to me, Tiger.” Dick holds out a hand to wave his finger in a tutting motion before rolling over to the corner. He’s about to be very stupid. “It doesn’t make sense to sleep on the floor when I stole your bed in the first place. Just stay on your side and I’ll stay on mine.”

Tiger scoffs. “Do you even know what you just asked, or are you still drunk on pain medication?”

“You can’t get drunk on pain medication, you can get high. Gosh, Tiger, keep up, I thought you said you were a doctor.”

“I am a doctor. And the Polish word for boyfriend, which you have chosen as your new code word for me should you forget, is pronounced ‘fry-er.’ not ‘fray-jer,’” Tiger says.

“Okay, Tig,” Dick says with a smirk. just to be a little bit more of a dickhead. “I feel sort of like a dick for making you care for me and clean up all the messes I made. So, as thanks for letting me use your bed. you can use the other half of it.”

“How is it a gift if it was mine in the first place?” Tiger asks, putting a hand on his hip with a little cocky tone of his own in his voice.

Dick groans. “Don’t bring logic into this debate, it’s no fair and you’d be cheating anyway. Just accept that I’m a nice guy and you’re going to take your spot on your bed because we’re both normal guys who can share the same space.”

Tiger clicks his tongue and opens his mouth before he shuts it again.

“Alright,” he agrees when he, hopefully, decides that the argument is pointless. “We’ll share the bed. However, if we keep waking up during the night bumping into each other I’ll move to the floor like I originally wanted to do.”

“Hey, if you want to spurn my kindness and throw your back out sleeping on the floor like a caveman, that’s your deal. I’m trying to be the bigger man here and allow you into my space, my very personal and vulnerable space, so don’t go throwing that away.”

“Believe me when I say I appreciate the thought, Dick, thank you.” Tiger manages to sound sincere and sarcastic with one response. “I’ll go get you your clothes and let you nap. It’s still early in the night for me so I’ll join you when I’m done.”

“I’ll be counting the seconds,” Dick shouts at Tiger’s back as he heads down the stairs. _What a guy._

While Dick’s stomach continues to growl at him for more food, his “dinner” more of a snack than an actual meal, his eyes easily slip shut as drowsiness overtakes him. He’s tired, and his body shakes with phantom fever-aches; no doubt his immune system is overloaded from the mental and physical stress he’s been under. He could probably sleep for an entire year.

He hears Tiger take the hotel phone off the receiver in the living area and call someone up, and while he can’t bring it in himself to care exactly what is being said—he’d say he’s done enough reconnaissance for one lifetime—his ears still perk up at the sound of his voice and his mind checks into the translation center.

The first phone call is entirely in Italian. Ugh. Dick is now starting to feel a little stupid for at least not knowing a few basic phrases and words of Italian, since it looks like he’ll be doing a lot of work there in the future. Stupid human traffickers and their urge to spread out like some filthy disease. They truly have no consideration to law enforcement, or human ethical issues for that matter.

He dozes off for a little nap during most of the call, only brought back into slight awareness whenever the name “Roman” is mentioned. Boy, would Dick like to have a go at taking some of his teeth from his mouth. Or maybe he’ll take a toenail, that would do it. He entertains the thought of shoving a cattle prod up his ass or stinging him with a cow-killer beetle. _No_ , he stops himself, _I’m not that barbaric. Eye for an eye, the old fashion way_. Dick smirks at the thought of blinding the sucker. That sounds like a good punishment, along with a life in prison sentence for all the people he’s fucked over.

Dick grimaces. He hopes that they can manage to save everyone that got wrapped up in the human slavery web. It seems a little hopeless, with how wide the spread has become and without knowing the point of origin—considering the higher ups all speak Italian, Russia may just be a secondary point as of now, which doesn’t bode well for the investigation. _It’s going to get better… I hope._

The name coming up multiple times, however, doesn’t sit well in Dick’s gut. He doubts that lackeys know what their boss’ last name is, considering they never move that high on the totem pole to figure it out in the first place. Tiger knowing and being in contact with him what may be daily is a little alarming for someone who seems to be trying to assure him that he is not a part of the group, or at least not a part of the people currently in charge of the group.

Dick thinks about Tiger’s possible motivations for keeping him alive. Say he wanted Roman arrested when Dick escaped and went back to the station. Sure, that removes the current boss from power, but it wouldn’t be like the police station and the rest of the agency for that matter would just stop with Roman. They’d take the plans, interrogate him and work towards dismantling the entire human trafficking network that Roman established. If Tiger was working with a coup to try and get rid of the old leadership to replace it with themselves, it would make a lot more sense if he killed Dick himself. Unless that’s what Tiger wanted, the entire ring dismantled so he could move in with his own guys to set up in areas that now have a lack of human sex objects to be distributed.

Dick groans as his forehead twinges in response. Fuck, this roundabout is making his head hurt. Why can’t bad guys ever do things the simple way? It’s like criminals need to have convoluted plans to function.

Then Tiger hangs up and goes back to picking up the suite, washing the dishes and turning on the TV to a very soft volume. Dick finds the white noise relaxing, and catches himself going in and out of sleep on several occasions. He doesn’t mind falling completely asleep, in fact he wishes he would, but something in the back of his mind is keeping him up. He hopes he’ll feel better once Tiger is in bed. Just let Dick have this last night, then he can have all the PTSD nightmares he wants.

There’s the low, rumbling noise of a phone vibrating on marble before Tiger picks it up again. This time he speaks in English.

That catches Dick’s attention more than Roman’s name did, and he jolts up into a sitting position like his bed zapped him out of it.

“Matron, hello, what can I do for you at such a late hour?” Tiger’s voice is tired, a yawn interrupting the middle of it as he continues to wash dishes.

There’s a few “hms” and “ahs” and “rights” that Tiger peppers into the conversation here and there. Dick lies awake on the bed wondering if he should crawl to the edge of the loft to get in better listen. He wants to hear what this Matron person is saying.

He tries to lean forward, battling down a hiss at the sharp strain it puts on his back. Another mystery for another night, he supposes, and lowers himself back down onto his side of the mattress. He’s awake now, at least, might as well listen.

“No,” Tiger says after a minute or two. “No, the shipment hasn’t been prepared yet. They’re taking a long time with it.”

Dick’s eyebrows pinch together. “Shipment” could easily mean “people.” Talking to a prospective buyer in English doesn’t bode well for their investigation. He hopes the person’s based in the UK and not the USA; at least if they can contain things to Europe, they’ll have an easier time saving the victims.

Dick sighs and reaches up to rub his temples. This is getting way too complex for one person to handle. If Leonid were here, he could check up on all sorts of things, get the bigger picture. Now, Dick’s on his own.

“There’s about twenty of them.” Tiger pauses for a moment before he continues. “Yeah, I know there’s a lot this time. Roman’s taking the risk since he’s so behind schedule… No, I don’t know what he’s thinking. Okay, I’ll get back to you in the morning.”

Tiger hangs up. Dick’s quiet. He should get out of here tomorrow, bad vision or not. If he doesn’t tell the station what he knows, they could lose this lead forever.

He stiffens when he hears Tiger walking up the stairs. While he must know there’s always a risk of Dick hearing, Dick doesn’t want to give any indication that he has. He closes his eyes tight and breathes slowly through his nose. He hears a soft sigh and the ruffle of fabric as Tiger strips down before sitting down on the bed next to him.

Dick does his best to make sure he stays still when he feels Tiger’s naked, warm back brush against his own softly. Dick curses internally. _This is hell._

“Dick,” Tiger says, so soft that Dick doesn’t know if Tiger said anything at all. “When you leave, if all things go well, we will never see or speak to each other again. If you try to contact me, all you’ll get is a disconnected phone call.”

Tiger goes quiet after that, not expecting or wanting a response. Dick quietly thinks over the words in his head, pulling the blankets closer to himself before he shuts his eyes. He tries not to think too hard about the way his heart clenches up.

* * *

When Dick wakes up, it’s to the sound of a bird pecking at the glass window in the living room.

He groans, tired and annoyed, pulling the blanket over his head. The space next to him on the bed is empty, but as Dick spreads a hand out, he can feel the phantom warmth left by Tiger’s body. The suite sounds empty, save for the infuriating pecking against the glass, which means Tiger must have only left a few minutes ago. While Dick doesn’t know the exact time frame Tiger’s been gone, considering he’s spent majority of his time unconscious, he has no doubt that if he ran into Tiger at the door as he left the man would let him walk right by.

Which is why Dick is attempting to get some more sleep before he finally picks himself out of bed. Key word, however, is trying, because the bird continues to be a nuisance. After trying for what feels like an hour, Dick eventually throws the covers off and opens his eyes up slowly.

Aside from the brightness of the morning, his vision is way more in focus than it was yesterday, Dick can see the individual wrinkles on the covers bunched up around him as well as the small, light blue designs that were blobs yesterday. This is better than what he could have asked for. With his sight nearly back to the way it was, he can go out onto the street, find a phone booth, and call for the police station.

He sits up in bed, gritting his teeth together at the pull of his sensitive and irritated skin.

He scrunches up his nose in disgust when he gets a whiff of sweat and dirt. His hair feels matted to his skull, and he lifts an arm to chance a smell at an armpit. He lets out a whistle. Holy shit, does he smell bad. Yet another thing he wants when he gets back to the station: a shower.

Doesn’t want to try to shower now, no matter how nice and clean the suite is. He might end up staying another night.

He winces a little as he stands up, still wobbly from soreness and the hunger in his stomach. He spots the clothes Tiger must have bought him sitting on top of the railing to the stairs.

Grabs the shirt and sweatpants then puts them on. He can see, thank God, as he moves to the top of the stairs, that look a lot scarier with clear vision, a pair of flip flops or house shoes waiting at the bottom. Good. Means he doesn’t have to worry about stealing any.

That does, however, leave the matter for how he’s going to pay for the pay phone. He hopes that the 911 call is free, like it normally is everywhere else.

That still leaves the matter of the stairs. He takes the railing, bracing himself against it as he eases himself down. He has to stop several times, especially when his leg, still bruised to hell, flares up, but he makes it down. Once he’s at the bottom he slips on the sandals and assesses what he should do next. The smart thing to do would be to grab a bite to eat; who knows when he’s going to get the chance again, especially if he’s carted off to an interrogation room to tell the station what happened.

But Dick, upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, finds himself filled with itchy, anxious energy. While he trusts Tiger somewhat, there’s no telling if Roman or any of his henchmen will decided to pay the suite a visit. He doesn’t know Tiger’s normal hours, either; disappearing so early may be cause for suspicion.

It’s best to get out while he can.

His stomach picks that time to growl loudly. Dick sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and walks into the small, open kitchen. He opens the fridge and finds nothing, not even those disgusting bananas. He searches the cabinets for the oatmeal, finding only various drinking glasses, bowls and plates. Tiger seems to like to leave a minimal footprint. Dick can’t even recall if he saw anything of Tiger’s upstairs, aside from his clothes.

Probably takes everything with him, leaves no trace just in case he has to leave early.

Dick shakes his head. He’ll just have to find food on the way out. Sort of feels like he should leave a note or something that he won’t be coming back. If only due to how Tiger reacted when he came home yesterday.

Risking one more call, Dick heads over to the hotel phone and dials the number he’s memorized.

It rings once, twice, then three times, before Dick starts getting worried that Tiger won’t answer it.

“Hello?” Tiger’s voice is quiet and the warm tones of Arabic bring a calm feeling to Dick’s thumping heart.

“Thanks for everything,” Dick says, then hangs up.

Now he’s working against the clock.

No turning back now. He leaves the suite. The hallway that stretches on in front of him leads to an elevator with only three doors on both walls in front of him. He keeps a steady pace as he moves down the red plush carpet and walks past the elevator doors when he reaches them, opting to take the stairs. He has no idea how many floors up it is, until he glances up and sees the 27.

Dick takes a breath. He’s got a lot of walking to do.

While he’d much rather take the elevator, he runs the risk of bumping into more early risers that way. If someone sees him looking so beat-up and filthy, word might get around, whispers about the human trafficking ring. Someone connecting the dots could easily find out about Tiger’s betrayal, and then it’s all over for him. Not to mention what it could do to their investigation.

So, Dick chooses to take the stairs. He can slip into the garage and try to jack a car, if he wants, or at least walk away from the hotel without too much of a ruckus.

He wishes he had a jacket, or something with long sleeves and a hood so he can walk through the streets in public without catching too many eyes. With his face and arms visible, he’ll have to stick to alleyways.

Dick grimaces at the thought. His last experience with one is what got him kidnapped in the first place. Hopefully, they’ll make it up to him this time and save his dumb ass.

He reaches floor 10 after what feels like an hour, slowly easing himself down the steps with a groan of annoyance. He doesn’t know how far he’s going to get away from the hotel before he makes the call. He wanted at least a three-mile distance, but he’ll be lucky if he gets one at this rate.

After a few more painful minutes he reaches the first floor, then the lobby, and finally the garage. He sighs in relief, pushing open the scratched up yellow doors and into the cold, dark garage.

It’s filled with cars and Dick, still trying to avoid being spotted by anyone, ducks around the cement pillars that dot the garage when he sees someone walking out to their car. He makes it to the garage entrance, waiting for the attendant that sits in the booth to get distracted by someone entering before he runs out onto the sidewalk. The hotel sits in the middle of a crowded city. When he gets the chance, grateful that his side of the sidewalk is rather devoid of people, he ducks into an alleyway.

He passes by the disgusting dumpsters that line the alleyway, walking fast, but not fast enough that it hurts his legs. He takes a breath. Focus. _Focus._ When he reaches the safety of the space between two buildings, he spies a homeless man curled up by the dumpster. The man lies there beneath a pile of jackets, asleep. Dick doesn’t think twice as he bolts toward him, snatches the top jacket, and sprints down the alley as the man’s startled voice echoes off the buildings.

Dick takes a moment to slide on the foul-smelling jacket while taking quick, sharp turns to throw off his possible pursuer. Not that he thinks he’s being chased by the man anymore. He probably got away the moment he stole the jacket. A sick man wasn’t about to book it after his ass.

He feels bad momentarily, pulling the hood up over his head and down over his eyes, shoving his hands in the pockets. At least he’s a bit warmer now. But using this disgusting jacket makes him unable to sneak into cafes or stores to shoplift food without being watched suspiciously. At least, should there be any of Roman’s men on the street, they won’t give him a second glance looking like a coked-up junkie.

The men and women that walk up and down the sidewalk give him a wide leeway when they pass him, glancing at him nervously from the corner of their eyes. Dick rolls his own. Dramatic. It isn’t like he’s some walking monster man.

He gets into a more touristy section of whatever city he’s in and hears American tourists in loud voices yelling for each other like a pack of wild dogs. Or feral cats, whatever animal was the more annoying one. There is, however, an abundance of street vendors. So he finds the busiest, a man selling fresh pastries on the corner, and waits.

He sits down on a bench next to a smelly woman with loads of perfume and a little dog who, as expected, gets up the moment Dick sits down. He scoffs under his breath. _Yeah you’re not exactly my type either, sister._

He combs over the people waiting in line. Mostly children with mom and dad’s money buying a snack for themselves. Dick keeps looking over the next customer, feeling bad possibly snatching a child’s food. That is until he lands on two loud Americans with thick Southern accents, fanny packs buckled around their waists, each wearing prominent crucifixes. They both look mad about how long the line is, motioning to the children and then to each other, rolling their eyes and tapping their feet impatiently. Oh, yeah, Dick has no problem taking from them. He looks over the two women, trying to guess which one will be easier to snatch from.

Waits until they get into the front of the line and listens to their complex order. He starts running at them as they walk away from the vendor, shoving himself between the two of them, making sure to pull down the one he targeted specifically. The three of them go sprawling, but Dick rolls forward, grabs one of the fallen snacks and takes off. Too startled from the wailing no one moves so Dick takes off.

Still Dick runs a few blocks, more than enough distance for any pursuer to give up chasing someone over a stolen piece of sweet bread.

When he finds a suitable alley, he ducks in between the buildings and quickly eats the piece of food. He finishes far too fast for his liking, licking his fingers free of crumbs. Stretches out his back and sighs. Now he needs to walk.

And Dick walks, weaving seamlessly in and out of groups on the sidewalk. He’s a little slow, so he doesn’t know how long it takes him to walk the first mile. All he knows is that when he’s probably bordering on mile two, hungry once more, he berates himself. What is he doing, putting distance between himself and the hotel? He’s only doing this for Tiger’s sake, so that the police don’t find out where he was held right off the bat.

It’s not like he’s that attached to Tiger anyway, right? Sure, he saved and cared for his ass, but Tiger also let his ass get beaten to hell and back to see if he could overhear Dick spill any beans. And if Dick is going to get into it, Tiger admitted he was going to use his ass in the future. So, if anything, Dick should not be helping him.

….God he’s a loser he actually likes the guy.

It’s a strange and bizarre situation that Dick has found himself in. Covering for a man that he doesn’t know and has fought with on several occasions, if not pretending that they have no idea who the other is. Dick of course wants to find out where the end of this rabbit hole goes, but he doesn’t want to endanger Tiger any more than he already has. Dick curses to himself, what a mess this is.

Dick sighs, looking around again when he spies a small American company food chain and walks over.

He pokes his head into the mostly empty diner, looking up at the clock on the far wall that reads 8:30 pm. That’s a lot later than he thought. Which would also explain why his legs hurt so much.

He peers around the restaurant at the red, plastic cover chairs and the one tired family with four kids eats in the back corner. Dick, when he turns to face the register, sees the cashier eyeing him warily and he rolls his eyes. He walks over to the counter, watching as the cashier’s hand slips underneath it. Dick resists the urge to scoff.

“Excuse me,” Dick asks, pleasant and in Russian. “Do you know where a pay phone I can use is?”

The cashier blinks in surprise before mouth settling into a firm frown. “Ours is broken.”

 _I’m sure it’s really not. “_ Too bad, do you know of any that I can use out on the street? Or another building along this road that may have one?”

The cashier shifts on the balls of their feet and scratches the back of their neck. “Maybe the Starbucks across the street has one you can use.”

Dick nods in thanks before turning around and leaving before they can say anything else. He will certainly be writing in a complaint to management about this.

But with night approaching fast and his legs, now achy and weary from a day of walking, hurries across the street quickly. If all else fails, he may just ask to borrow a cell phone to make the call.

The Starbucks across the street smells infinitely better than whatever American chain rested on the opposite side and is considerably more packed, with a long line that stretches towards the door.

Dick squeezes in behind the line and makes his way towards the bathrooms in the back of the coffee shop.

“Hey!” A sharp voice rings from behind the counter. Dick freezes before turning his head in surprise to look at the annoyed employee behind the counter by the toaster to heat up the pastries.

“Bathrooms are for paying customers only.” The employee snaps, looking him over critically. Dick smiles back brightly.

“Good thing I’m not using your bathrooms then, yes?”

And he continues his walk to the back of the shop without listening to the employee call after him. When he turns the corner that leads to the entrance of the two bathrooms he sees the phone pressed on the small wall between the two doors. He sighs in relief. He walks over and picks the phone off the receiver and dials the 911 equivalent for Russia.

The moment he gets connected to the station he finds himself on the verge of tears in relief. Dick resists the urge to laugh at himself. Was he really in that bad of a spot that he’s now crying? Jeez, he’s probably going to have to be in therapy for the rest of his life or something. He didn’t know he was that messed up from this small mini vacation from the case.

“What’s your emergency?”

“There’s a homeless man in the Starbucks on 9th that’s bleeding all over the floor,” Dick says as he puts the phone between his chin and shoulder and takes the gauze in his hand and tears it off. “He’s in distress and it’s causing a scene. If someone could come pick him up. . .”

There’s a little sigh that Dick barely catches. “An officer will be over shortly.”

“Thanks.” Dick hangs up, turns to his hand and takes a deep breath.

He slaps it against the corner of the phone booth and drags it down violently. The pain, holy hell, feels completely and utterly terrible, however, it does a nice job of re-opening the wound as blood pours out from his palm and onto the floor. He holds it tight in his hand long enough to hear a gasp behind it.

A woman stands in the hallway, petrified.

“Hello,” Dick smiles.

The woman is running back out onto the main floor of the cafe before Dick can even think to stop her. He takes a breath. That's fine.

The employee from before pokes their head back down the hall, looking at the bloody puddle, Dick’s hand and then Dick himself. “You have to leave.

“I don’t want to,” Dick says in return, holding his hand out towards them. “Do you have a Band-Aid?”

“Please go seek medical attention elsewhere,” the employee insists, looking down back towards the main door and then back to Dick. “We can’t offer you any help here, we aren’t a hospital.”

“That’s a shame,” Dick said with a sigh. “Guess I’ll just have to make do with napkins.”

“I need to get my manager.” The employee turns around and walks back probably to go behind the counter.

Dick waves at their back before he presses his own against the wall and shuts his eyes. _Nearly over._

* * *

The police arrive at the same time as the ambulance, Dick’s more than a little happy that he made sure to mention his wound because he’s sure his ears are bleeding from how much the manager started yelling at him. Bad social relations indeed. Looks like Starbucks won’t be getting any of his coffee money in the future, what a poor public management team.

While the paramedic looks at his hand the police, that looked keen on booking him when arrive, pale when the paramedic ask him to take his coat off. Yeah, arresting an injured man never does look good on the news, does it?

The paramedic shakes her head as she looks over the wounds beneath his gauze. “These have been done poorly, who is your doctor?”

“I couldn’t even tell you what I had for lunch, ma’am,” Dick laughs, grimacing as she runs a finger along the stitching.

“You’ll have to be taken into the hospital for observation, you are aware of that, yes? These wounds could have easily gotten infected beneath that bandage.”

If Dick has another run in with Tiger he’ll be sure to talk to him about the less than stellar stitching job. Serves him right.

“Can you walk?” The paramedic asks, looking him up and down from where he sits on the floor. “Or do you need a stretcher to assist you?”

“That depends,” Dick says softly, pointing towards the large and muscled male paramedic in the doorway. “Is he the stretcher?”

Dick declines the stretcher despite the pain and ache in his sore legs. He doubts he’ll be walking a lot in the next 24 hours when they go over his vitals and keep him in the hospital, might as well take advantage of it now. Still the paramedic, named _Boris_ as stereotypical as that can be, offers his arm as a solid stabilizer for Dick to use as he exits the building.

As they pass the police officers Dick pauses and turns to them. “Line 5 connection to the RF for Agent Leonid, tell him that Dick is in,” he stops and turns to the paramedic. “What hospital are we going to?”

“NMS Medical Center Moscow.”

“Dick is in NMS Medical Center Moscow.” He finishes with a nod of thanks towards the paramedic.

The mustached police man furrows his brows, obviously confused as to why a homeless man is telling him to call a line to a department they probably are unaware of existing. No matter. If they don’t call them Dick will when he gets the chance. He nods to them and continues his walk out with the paramedic.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to Leonid, besides Roman, Italian and American man. That’s barely any information, aside from the house where Roman held him for the better part of a whole day. That will mean something.

They load him up onto the ambulance and ease him onto the stretcher inside so that he can lie down. And the moment Dick’s head hits the less than soft pillow beneath his head he’s out like a light.

It’s near instant. The moment he re-opens his eyes he’s sitting in a lemon-scented and sterile hospital room wearing nothing but the pale, back open patient gown on a bed that’s very minutely moving constantly to keep his blood flowing. It’s a little disorienting and he jolts up right in shock, only realizing what’s happened when the wave of tiredness rushes over his eyes and head.

He wants to sleep for a thousand years, maybe more if he’s lucky. But he doesn’t because as he eases himself back down onto the bed he hears yelling in the hallway right before the door swings open.

Agent Leonid stands there looking shocked and pale with dark purple circles around his eyes as he stares at him, gaping like a fish in the doorway. He stares and Dick and Dick stares back, the only sound passing between them of the angry nurses fretting behind Leonid ranting about disturbing the patient.

Leonid, eventually, seems to gather his senses and reaches into his pants to pull out his identification, flipping it out towards the nurse without once looking away from Dick. The nurse snatches it from him, looking it over before huffing and shoving it back into his limp hand.

The wallet and badge falls to the floor with a muffled slap. That seems to snap Leonid out of whatever daze he’s in because he gulps and blinks finally before he takes another step into the room.

“Dick?”

“Jesus, Leonid,” Dick laughs, voice tight with a strained smile spreading across his lips. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“What-I. . .Where were you?” Leonid stutters walking forward and collapsing in the chair besides Dick’s bed. Dick laughs again and falls back in the bed and looks up to the ceiling. His smile slips off his mouth quickly, taking a shuddering breath as he answers.

“Hell.”

* * *

Dick stays in the hospital under watch, despite not needing it considering Tiger’s attentiveness for the better part of two days. The walk from the hotel was probably not the best idea to do in sweats and one stinky homeless jacket with how weak he was and develops a fever on the first morning. Damn weak immune system.

The doctors had been worried about treating him with antibiotics, they worried about the development of a strain of super bacteria if they put Dick on a new regiment and had asked about the pills he took. Dick had no clue. However, as convenient as any action movie plot device, Tiger had taken the liberty to think ahead in this case.

On his back, probably done when he was sleeping, was the drug type, regiment and how long he had taken them and when he had taken them. Tiger had known that he was going to leave that morning and probably vacated the hotel afterwards. That guy knew how to sneak around better than Dick arguably.

It didn’t matter so much anymore. Both were out of each other’s hair for now.

And so was Roman for that matter.

Dick tells Leonid everything he remembers. Thing 1 and 2, the masks, the torture, the house, the Italian accents, the animal hospital, the American phone call, everything. He tells Leonid about Tiger, the whole bonding experience, which makes them both stop and wonder what his game must be. He had mention wanting to use Dick to get what he wanted, the question was though was his report to Leonid about everything that happened wanted?

Must obviously be so or else Tiger wouldn’t have let him go in the first place. But the why, the why alludes him. It’s so frustrating.

Dick can’t handle unknown factors, its why he constantly looks things up and becomes as informed as he can about cases. It’s also why he read’s a movie’s summary on Wikipedia before he goes to watch it. He likes surprises sure, but in small and controllable doses. Like a surprise birthday party or Christmas present. Nothing else.

Dick leans back in his creaky wood chair and rubs his temples.

That’s enough thinking for now.

He re-opens his eyes.

He’s staying at Leonid’s residence while he waits to hear news of the Roman house raid. It had taken a few days to find the house, considering Roman’s name wasn’t written on the residence and he was going by a fake name in public. It was something stupid like Stilinsky or something. Ridiculous. Might as well of chosen the fake name of literal human asshole.

Still they were positive on house, having been confirmed by Dick’s small intel and eye witness statements confirming the types of vehicles and men—including one lovely Tiger—drive through the neighborhood regularly.

Dick had not been allowed to go. Partly due to his injuries still not fully healed as well as his fever continuing to hang around and make him feel even weaker than he already was and because Leonid was concerned for his mental health.

Dick still scoffs at that. His mental health? Really? That was what was stopping him from getting clearance to go into the house? Give him a break.

Leonid told him he worried about Dick reliving the moment in Roman’s cellar if he entered it or came across the man himself. Dick had laughed and said all he’d want to do if he saw Roman was punch him in the face. He wouldn’t cower or hide behind Leonid like the man seemed to assume Dick would.

Dick scoffed at the accusation. It wasn’t like he was that sensitive or weak for that matter.

 _Suffering from trauma isn’t weak,_ Dick. Shut up distant memory Tiger.

Dick looked around the office space in Leonid’s apartment, bored.

In front of him was an old oak desk covered with numerous papers scattered about, some pertaining to the case, well most pertaining to the case, with case files, witness statements, persons of interest, house blue prints, as well as a map of western Russia with red circles around cities that indicated where busts of human trafficking rings had happened, red lines connected the ones that were related together. Upon the mess of paper is also several old grocery lists, with buy milk being included on every single one.

No wonder Leonid was huge.

Surround by the sea of marked up papers sits a cracked Dell monitor—Dick doesn’t even want to ask how that crack that spider webs out from the corner from one looks like an impact mark happened, and is more surprised that the monitor can even run still. Below the desk, sitting on cold cream tile, sits the computer which makes up for being stupidly annoying from its loud droning fan with being Dick’s own personal foot heater.

On the monitor is nothing but that default blue sky and green rolling fields. Dick is waiting for a Skype call. Or a phone call. Whatever Leonid decides. He wants to use Skype to video call from the house to confirm the basement. Dick had sneered at the idea. Why would he want to see that sight again if Leonid had been so concerned about triggering him before? How odd and roundabout.

He can hear the low purring of Leonid’s devil cat, that used Dick’s pant leg as its personal scratching post from the hallway, and tilts away from the desk to shut the door to the office. No, not today Snuggles.

He sighs again out of boredom and looks at the screen. He doesn’t know how the tech crew does it. Sitting at a computer waiting for an update is probably the worst job that Dick he’s ever had the misfortune of doing. He’ll be sure to give Leonid some hell when he gets back for putting him in yet another room after his week of time out. Recovery his ass, he suffered enough under the watchful eye of Dr. Tiger M.D.

The screen flickers away from the irritating bright blue and green of the Microsoft default screen saver as the Skype call icon pops up. Dick winces at the annoying ringtone before he clicks on the icon to accept the call.

There’s a pause as the call connects, opening to reveal a close of Leonid’s face to where Dick can see individual nose hairs.

“Back it up a little,” Dick says, leaning away from the screen. Leonid responds instead to someone off screen in fast Russian—too fast for Dick to even try to catch it—before he finally pulls the phone away from his face.

“Dick, we are at the estate,” Leonid looks around his dimly lit area on the other side of the phone.

“Well that’s good,” Dick says, crossing his arms over his chest, tired and annoyed. “I thought you all had gone to McDonalds without me.”

“Don’t be like that Dick,” Leonid glances at him directly. “We’re at the estate and well,” Leonid pauses as he flips the phone’s camera away from him.

They’re in what must be the cellar of the house, Dick recognizes the imposing atmosphere from the bad lights and the disgusting damp grey walls anywhere. The only problem with the picture is the cellar is devoid of anything, from a lack of blood stains on the ground that he knows he made, to a cart full of malicious tools.

“So the basement torture chamber is empty. Big deal, wasn’t like there was a lot of stuff down there for them to have to get rid of anyway.”

“It is not just the basement,” Leonid continues from off screen. “The entire house looks like this. Bare, empty of furniture, nothing. The house does not look like anyone has lived in it for a long time.”

Dick groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t like a halfway transportation house needed furniture or anything. But no furniture meant less things for DNA samples to find and, considering the lack of blood on the floor, they paid very good attention to clean up detail.

“Italians,” Dick mutters under his breath and brings his hands up to his temples. He rubs at the skin, taking a deep rough breath before letting out a drawn-out sigh. “You’re still going to look around and ask neighbors what’s what, yeah?”

“Of course, Dick,” Leonid flips the camera back around so it was facing him, a few spaces away this time. “There will be someone watching the house. I am sorry it did not go as planned.”

“It’s whatever,” Dick waves his hand and sits up in the chair. “I’m tired and frustrated, you can handle the rest of the clean-up and brief me later, right?”

“Yes,” Leonid hangs up. Dick scoffs under his breath, quick and impersonal. Leonid was handling the transfer back to normal affairs rather smoothly, why Dick couldn’t do it himself is slowly starting to piss him off. He can’t very much explain why, but there is something in the back of his mind, digging at his skull like and itch, making him worry and stress over some unknown variable.

He doesn’t want to say it’s because he’s upset that Tiger’s decided to say fuck off for real this time because good riddance. But there is something in the bottom of Dick’s gut that hopes that that fact doesn’t turn out to be true. He doesn’t know why exactly he likes playing a game of cat and mouse with a, very likely, human trafficker or weapons dealer. Maybe those Hollywood movies with the detective and the serial killers had a little more merit to them than he had taken them for.

And if Tiger really is the Hannibal to Dick’s Will Graham or Clarice Starling—in this case maybe the roles are more reversed than he cares to mention—Dick’s got to start being more careful.

* * *

It’s several weeks later and Dick’s at the end of his stay in Russia—even past the original two month timeline—no closer to wrapping up the case than when he had started.

Turns out that it isn’t so much of a “simple” rabbit hole like they original thought. Instead, it's more like a fox hole that leads to the den of one of the most high-profile human trafficking rings in Russia with a wide array of tunnels that lead to nowhere and also everywhere.

The ring, as Dick had assumed originally after being kidnapped, started outside of Russia and had been festering inside the European giant for some years, importing girls and boys from China and India—and exporting them at equal numbers—to wealthier European countries like Germany and France. That alone brought in stacks upon stacks of governmental red tape enough to cover the moon three times over. Likewise, like a hydra from Greek mythology, every time they seemed to close off an avenue of human trading, if they were even so lucky, another two opened. Likewise, they had governmental officials—with their hands deep in the trader’s pockets—breathing down their necks, waiting for them to step out of line.

Absolute madness.

Dick had the (mis)fortune to be excluded from the beginning of the case, confined to a room as he recovered from his wounds and waited for his notoriety among the ring to die down. It was most likely it never would, considering the fact the police were harder on the traffickers more so than ever, but he had to wait before he could go out in public again without risk of being recognized.

Bruce wanted him off the case early on, because he had practically been totally compromised and the knowledge of a reappearing man, Tiger, painted a big target on the back of his head. The Russian government—the parts that were uncorrupt anyway—convinced Bruce to let him stay till the end of his term, quoting that he had the most information on the ring. Which he did, as sad as it was to say.

The fact that he was blind most his time in captivity put a damper on everything though. That and the house being devoid of anything, wiped clean of fingerprints, didn’t help the case much. However, there was an attempt on Dick’s life while he was staying at a secluded safe house in the middle of the country waiting for the heat to die down, that led them to their first break.

Dick thankfully never knew about the attempt on his life, his guards having spotted the assassin before he got too close to the house and taken him into custody by the time Dick had even gotten the warning text to barricade himself in the bunker underground. He doubted that if someone had come after him he would be as calm and level-headed as he was now about going back out into public.

The government had sent Dick out, back into the tuxedos and the parties, knowing full well he could be spotted by Roman and killed in an alleyway if he was spotted because he was bait. And nothing more than that.

Dick, in his time spent hiding under the covers from nightmares of men in cartoonish political masks tearing off his toenails, seemed to have developed a sixth sense. He was constantly on edge, like a rabbit waiting to outrun a lightning bolt the moment the hair on the back of his neck started standing up. That or he started paying a hell of a lot more attention to his gut instinct that turned out to be right out of pure luck often.

Most importantly he was careful. Super careful about following people he, or Leonid, had marked as “persons of interests.” There was a lot less running from gunfire and up stairways to escape gorillas in suits with their ugly, angry faces after him. A lot more sneaking around and catching the tail end of conversations that, obviously, led to more information than just crashing in—not that Dick did that a lot to begin with.

There were a fair share of missed opportunities too, when Dick hung back instead of tailing after a mark when they disappeared down an alleyway. Leonid wouldn’t berate him too badly over the earpiece when Dick hesitated to go after them, but it was obvious he was frustrated.

Being a spy meant entering situations that may be dangerous anyway because of the importance it meant to the case. But at the same time in meant pulling out when things got too risky. Dick wasn’t some James Bond. He could afford it.

But Dick wouldn’t admit that his body’s refusal to chase after suspects because of an onset of sudden paralyzing fear infuriated him too. It had been weeks, he should have been over his captivity by now.

He prepared himself, keeping a Taser on him always, but it wasn’t enough. It was more than slightly annoying.

That was why Dick resolved to finally push past it when he attended the art gala in Sochi at a casino near beach of the Black Sea.

Dick sits out on the marble terrace of the newly opened section of the casino along with the inclusion of several original art pieces done by Leonardo da Vinci. His suit is slightly wrinkled, smelling mostly of cologne to mask the subtle smell of sweat that had accumulated after wearing the suit for several successive days in a row. He’s alone at his table made of stainless glass with a small amount of platinum coated chips sitting in the center that he received upon entering so that he could participate in a “free” game of blackjack.

He works one of the chips over in his fingers, running his thumb along the curved edge as he looks out over the lights from the nearby yacht club on the beach. The bright yellow lights on the boats chase away the stars in the early evening sky that’s starting to invite a cold fall chill over the country. It won’t be long before it dips into the negatives, still Dick brings his arms closer together and wishes he had a coat.

“Anything unusual?” Leonid’s voice crackles into his ear piece. His voice shakes a little, probably freezing from his position, far away on one of the balconies of the local hotels, watching the party with a .75 caliber sniper rifle. It’s not an _actual_ rifle. The gun shoots sedative darts.

“No,” Dick hums, flipping the chip up into the air and catching it on the back of his hand. “Heads or tails, Leonid?”

“Dick,” Leonid warns, voice tired and rough. “We have no time to play games tonight.”

“Pity,” Dick sets the chip back onto the stack, catching the eye of a white-dressed waiter carrying around a silver platter of crystal glasses. He beckons him over with a hand. “I would like to find at least some way to alleviate the boredom of the evening.”

“You have to watch the boats,” Leonid grunts. “You will not see marked boat inside.”

The waiter leans down with the platter of drinks and Dick smiles, bright and wide now that he’s finally had his back molar replaced, taking one of the glasses. He waits until the waiter is a few steps away before he responds. “What’s your bet that the boat is already in the harbor and the girls unloaded?”

“Alexi said they weren’t here yet.”

“How many times is Alexi wrong?” Dick fidgets, drinking the champagne from the glass in one go, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “Maybe I should go down and have a look?”

“You are restless, you have to wait.” Leonid says. “I will tell you when I see the boat.”

“Hm, can you even see it with that scope?” Dick leans back in the seat watching a woman in a glittering golden dress peer over the railing on the starboard side of the boat. Or was it portside?

“I can see your shoes,” Leonid admits. “There are two other agents in the building, you are well defended. All you have to do is stay put.”

Dick doesn’t like staying in one place. He doesn’t know if he was like that before or after the whole, “recovery” thing, but sitting still makes him more than a little bit nervous. His foot taps against the marble floor impatiently, focusing on the way the sequins on the golden dress catch the lights on the boat.

The boat he’s supposed to be searching the water for is another party boat, one Dick is more than well acquainted with. _Orpheus._

It shares the same make and model of the parasailing boat Dick had directed Tiger towards, back in those simpler days when he was just Scar, an Egyptian dad with bad taste and Croc sandals. The boat is supposed to come in, stripped off the gaudy stickers on the sides that it had in Ostia’s port with the ugly cartoon smiling man on the side. Dick supposes that it will, more than likely, also be devoid of that specific “non-Arab” man. Upsetting.

But Dick knows his luck and he’s sure that sooner or later, most likely in a month or day or hour, not matter how much Tiger says he is done with Dick, the two of them will run into each other like Romeo and Juliet.

Hopefully, that is, because Dick is not going to go his entire life without finding out the ending to this cliffhanger.

The lady with the gold dress disappears into the cabin of the ship and Dick blinks, concentration and thoughts broken now that is distracting object is gone. He looks past the boats on the dock into the inky darkness of the Black Sea. He lifts his wrist to look down at his watch, a Rolex lent to him by Leonid, to check the time. 10:45. Still too early. The gala will be winding down in another hour but _Orpheus_ is set to make its appearance at golden hour of 12 am with its deck full of whores trying to catch the leaving gala patrons while most them board several of the ships in the harbor.

The yacht club is celebrating their charming 45-year-old boss’s retirement party. Little do they know that the charismatic Knyazev was a lover of soft girls between sixteen and eighteen. He doubts that most of the company on the boats care except, save for the fact that they’re enjoying Knyazev footing the tab for his own retirement. Probably rolling in dough after having the trafficking ring pay him a percentage for all the human lives he ships through his boats. What does he expect from a former Kremlin official?

“Leonid” Dick scans the crowd of people for an equally distracting person, eventually setting on a man in a checkered suit. “Do you like ballet?”

There’s a pause and as Leonid decides on whether to answer the silly question. “I do, why do you ask?”

“I’m trying to see if you’re a bigger walking cliché of Russian culture than Knyazev,” Dick pushes his chair back as he stands up from his seat. He’s done waiting in one spot.

“Knyazev is not an accurate representation of my country,” Leonid says, offense snapping with his words.

“Former KGB agent, avid communist supporter that practiced capitalism on the sly, regular opera attender, director of five dance studios, and _Anna Karenina_ is his favorite book. He’s a walking stereotype,” Dick walks out from underneath the protective awning that keeps most of the terrace free from snow in the winter. He glances around at the buildings on either side, large hotels that cost more than his yearly salary to stay in for more than a week. He can see, at the top level of building to the right the very subtle glint of silver.

“Knyazev is not a representative of my home,” Leonid snaps at him in Russian. “Do not equate me to him.”

Dick shrugs to no one and walks away looks back at the boats, smarter to leave the bear alone than continue poking him. Especially when the bear has a high-powered rifle pointed at your head.

Dick walks out to the end of the terrace where he presses up against the beautifully sculpted railing, scanning the outer corners of the Black Sea in silence.

The wind grows colder and sends shivers down his back as it blows against the exposed skin at the top of his neck. He curls his arms closer in on himself, and thinks back to the heated interior of the casino with envy. The boats, he thinks in amusement, have heaters glowing orange and red set up on stands on their decks. The men and women must be warm, Dick muses as he eyes the pale sloping shoulders of one woman peeking out of her sweetheart dress. Dick glances at the man with the arm wrapped around her waist with warm-blooded jealousy.

Dick knows he isn’t getting good information standing here on here on the terrace, which is why he pushes himself away from the railing and begins walking down the grassy hill that leads to the gated entrance of the yacht club.

There’s radio silence for only a second before Leonid jumps on. “Where are you going?”

“To do my job,” Dick answers, jumping onto the stone path that winds around the grassy hill down to the beach.

“You are supposed to be waiting for the boat,” Leonid says.

“I’m waiting for the boat,” Dick says, reaching the waist high-gate, opening gently with one hand and shutting it behind him. “I’m just doing it where I can see it.”

“You are not clear for this party. There may be someone who knows you,” Leonid hisses. “Do not be stupid.”

“I’m not being stupid,” Dick says, adjusting his collar as he walks onto the dock. “I’m improvising. That’s smart.”

“I will not lie to Bruce when he asks what happened,” Leonid says. “You will be in deep water yourself.”

“Good thing I know how to swim.”

The yacht club mostly consists of a series of walkways that lead up to the boats along with a small, gothic-church inspired like building that acts as both the office and trophy room on the far end of the docks next to the yacht club’s private beach. Dick clicks his tongue as he looks around for any security guards. Normally, they are a constant patrol on the dock, just to make sure no one that doesn’t have any reason being on the dock doesn’t stay on it, mostly in regards to homeless men and women trying to find a warm spot to bunker down in. So long as you look like you’re supposed to be on the dock they won’t bother, and if Dick has anything its confidence it droves.

Even though the yacht club is about to get a lot of human merchandise in an hour, or less, it’s not terribly well guarded. That’s alright though, it would be odd if a simple yacht party had enough security to protect the Pentagon. Dick guesses though that there maybe be a few undercover goons with silenced pistols loitering about the party, but no one to stop him from getting on in the first place. That and his well-dressed appearance is cause for less suspicion, he’ll fit in. so long as he blends in with groups of people.

The portion of the dock that holds the yachts having the parties on them are overwhelmed with foot traffic with men and women in sparkling gowns and tuxedos with silver buttons walk between the boats or over to the main building, where Knyazev must be, judging by the actual uniformed security guard standing outside of his office. Dick hums to himself before he turns away. All in due time, comrade, all in due time.

There are four boats, three on one side and one on the other, that are being used for the party. The one boat off to the right by itself is rather small, only filled with about five men singing and clinking beer bottles together, their ties undone and tied around their heads. Dick shakes his head and writes off the right side. The three boats on the left side of the dock are large, their back ends filled with multiple tables where numerous party goers are sitting and eating. A few waiters, marked by their white aprons and red roses pinned to their coats, filter in between the tables refiling wine glasses and clearing away plates. There is no one standing in front of the boats on the docks to prevent anyone from entering by Dick can see a few men standing on the edges of the back end of the boat every now and then watching who steps off and back on the boats.

Dick considers it before he walks towards the boat furthest from the shore. It’s the biggest one by far and there is a group of men, young and in their early twenties hurrying over to the side to help a woman equally young with rose red lips with fair, blonde hair enter the ship with her high stiletto heels. Dick scoffs under his breath and walks quickly along the dock just in time for the woman to misstep and fall forward, shaken off balance by the planned shaking off the dock.

“Whoa there!” Dick grabs the woman by the waist and pulls her back so she’s standing up straight. Her face is flushed red in embarrassed panic and she flails for a second in his arms before she realizes she’s no longer falling forward. “That would have been unfortunate.”

“Thank you,” the woman laughs, embarrassed in a high and almost musical Russian. “That was close.”

The men on the boat give Dick the stink eye and he smiles back at them, pulling the woman closer by the waist. “Here, I’ll help steady you so you can board.”

“Thank you,” she says again, smiling brightly as she pulls up the bottom of her long evening gown so she can see her feet. Dick leans forward and grabs the edge of the boat’s railing and holds. She rests her hand against his outstretched arm and takes a step forward onto the boat, Dick lets his hand fall from her waist but wait behind her back in case she falls again. She steps on, turning around and waits for him to board the boat—having a much easier time—as well.

“I appreciate the help,” she pauses.

“Dick,” he holds out his hand. She slips her pale, slender fingers into his open palm. He takes her hand and presses a soft kiss to the tops of her knuckles. “It’s Dick.”

“Hm,” she takes her hand away with a smaller and more considering smile as she watches him through dark lashes. “Terra.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Terra.” Dick says, light and flirty back. “But I wouldn’t try to make a habit out of falling off boats.”

“But when there is someone like you to catch me how could I resist?” She smiles again before turning around. “Maybe I’ll see you again, _Mr._ Dick.”

Dick watches her go, following the curve of her waist as it moves while she walks, turning only after she disappears to the few remaining men at his side. He flashes them a smirk and walks after Terra, but instead follows the edge, walking up to the bow.

“You are ridiculous,” Leonid sighs into the earpiece. “Holding onto a lady like that.”

“I didn’t want her to fall into the water,” Dick says, peeking around the cabin to make sure the bow was empty. There was a man smoking on the far side, leaning over the railing and murmuring to himself. Dick walked forward and leaned against the wall of the cabin, looking out onto the edges of the Black Sea that stretched on ahead of him. “And I needed a distraction to get it.”

“That angered four drunk men,” Leonid adds. “Come to the back of the boat, I cannot see you up there.”

“Just watch my 6, Leonid, darling, I can take it from here,” Dick spots the open door that leads back into the cabin and walks over. He stays far away from the man and walks inside the cabin, sighing in relief at the warm air that blows against the back of his exposed neck. “Tell me when the boat comes.”

“You are impossible.”

Dick stays inside the cabin, watching the men and women of the party slowly get drunker and drunker on expensive vodka and tequila as the night goes on. The small bar on the boat is the center of attention and Dick sets himself down on a stool at the far corner of the counter when it opens. He orders a simple cranberry vodka mix and focuses on listening and watching the party members interact with each other. Leonid is mostly quiet throughout his duration in the cabin, thankfully.

Terra, sadly, disappears for the rest of the evening. While Dick can’t say that he had any time to get to know her better—because he didn’t—he would have liked to spend his time talking with someone than listening in on mostly boring conversations. Maybe he should have tried to sneak into the main office building to check on Knyazev. Too late for that now.

The boat, _Orpheus_ , makes its appearance at the scheduled time of 12 am, just like he originally assumed, right when the party starts to finally slow down. The boat appears like a phantom out of the night mist on the Black Sea, its lights glow brightly against the backdrop of fog and black water. Dick doesn’t even realize the boat has appeared, until he watches three men, who he assumed were passed out drunks at the bow of the boat suddenly stand to full attention. Leonid chimes in a second later.

“Boat is here.”

The _Orpheus_ approaches like it’s just another party boat coming into the dock, there are men and women dressed similarly to the men and women on the boats that are docked, wearing long evening gowns and freshly pressed tuxedos. Dick downs the rest of his drink and stands up.

“How many of them are tonight’s entertainment?” Dick asks into the earpiece. “All of them, or some?”

“Alexi did not say. It would be smart to assume all are slaves.” Leonid says. “Be easier if bad guys dressed them like hookers.”

“Things would be easier if every bad guy was a Hollywood movie villain,” Dick sighs and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a few rubles and leaves them on the counter, next to his empty glass. “In and out.”

He walks out of the cabin, brushing past a group of young boys who dart past him to the side of the boat. News travels fast, and most people on the boat must realize what _Orpheus’_  arrival means because the boys start whistling at the boat. “You’re going to like this.”

“I am not a fan of human slavery,” Leonid deadpans. “What is it?”

“You hear those whistles?” Dick asks as he steps besides the men and gives his own catcall to the boat. “I think this isn’t the first time Knyazev’s brought in outside entertainment for a party.”

“I would think so, he lets Roman use his port not surprising he would make use of his service too.”

“Classic Hollywood Russian bad guy,” Dick hums and throws a smile at one of the men when he claps Dick on the back.

“You are rude as always.”

The boat and its guests would probably look no different to those even attending the party, just another boat full of guests for Knyazev’s party that happened to take a cruise around the Black Sea. But Dick knows that most of the men and women on the ship have been loaded up onto the boat earlier that night from a drop off point in Georgia. He doesn’t know how many of them are well trained slaves or business practices and mobster friends of Knyazev. It would be best to approach the boat like walking into to a hornet’s nest.

It takes five minutes for the boat to finish docking, pulling up along the walkway where two men jump off the boat Dick’s on, and walk over to the right side. Two more men on _Orpheus_ throw them the ropes and the two pull the ship close before wrapping the rope around the cement holds on the dock. The moment the ropes are tied down, groups of women start walking off the boat and onto the other three party yachts.

Dick waits another ten minutes. He watches as women and men from the four crowded yachts walk and change in between them, opting to wait until things settle down a bit more before he makes his way over to _Orpheus_. He spots Terra, for the first time that night, smile at one of the men on the ship before she climbs on, walking into the cabin. Dick watches as a man on the yacht, who had been hanging in the shadows of the cabin with his hands folded in front of him catches her arm, bringing her close and shaking her, whispering something in her ear before he lets her go. She rubs her arm. Dick doesn’t miss the way she seems to close in on herself, a very different picture than the confident, upper-class woman he had seen earlier.

“Fuck,” Dick mumbles under his breath and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What is it?” Leonid asks. “What do you see?”

“You’re not going to like it. I think the merchandise has been here the whole time. _Shit_ , where the fuck are they all coming from then?”

“Before you work yourself up, are you sure it is merchandise?” Leonid asks. Dick hesitates for a moment, thinking back to when he had met Terra and what he had seen a second ago. Her being a part of the merchandise explains her flirty behavior.

“I’m sure, it explains the flirting earlier,” Dick sighs under his breath. “You’re right though, that was a quick assumption. There are probably a few that were here before the party, especially if this is a drop off point.”

“Are you certain or are you trying to get out of investigating?” Leonid teases lightly. Dick rolls his eyes and starts walking towards the exit of the yacht.

“The boat is here, what more do you want to call in for backup?” Dick said, stepping to the side so a pair of men could enter the yacht before he got back onto the dock. “A ledger?”

“Yes,” Leonid shot back instantly. “You forget, we need proof. We can’t just assume boat is filled with Roman’s slaves.”

“Even though we know it is based on intelligence.” Dick raised an eyebrow to himself and walked along the edge of the dock towards Orpheus.

Without the ugly sticker ads coating the edges of the boat like it did in Ostia, the yacht is rather plain. Dick can see the faint outlines of dirt marking the edges of where the stickers used to be cementing his guess that boat was indeed the one he saw in Italy. The back end of the boat leading into the cabin is open but instead of being full of tables it looks like the inside of a boudoir.

There are plush leather couches littered around the open area where men and women sit, close enough that their legs are pressed against one another. There are two men standing in the very corners of the room, muscular with those typical ugly goon faces that are square in shape and covered in deep sun wrinkles that look like scars. Their hands are crossed over their chests in bouncer-like fashion and Dick nods to himself as he hangs out on the back end, looking for an open place to sit.

“I’m going to need a distraction,” Dick whispers softly and beckons over a waiter who scurries around the room with a platter of champagne bottles. “There’s two guys in here and the space is a little small.”

“What are you planning to do?”

“To go below deck,” Dick answers.

“How are you going to do that,” Leonid asks, bemused. Dick looks around the yacht and walks over to the built-in bar that the yacht has, much smaller than the one on the previous boat.

“You’re going to take out one of the lights on the ship with the gun,” Dick answers. He smiles at the bartender, a young woman with slicked back brown hair and green eyes. “A martini, thanks.”

“You are stupid,” Leonid groans over the earpiece.

“That wasn’t a no,” Dick looks to the side and rubs the back of his neck. “It’s either that or push someone overboard, take your pick.”

There’s a loud exhale of breath from the other end of the earpiece. “I’ll give you a countdown.”

“That’s more than I could have asked for. I’ll give you the signal to start.”

Dick leans back against the edge of the counter, waiting for the bartender. The door that leads to the cabin of the ship is open, with paired off men and women entering every now and then. Dick assumes that there are bedrooms down there. Which makes sense considering where else they’d make their money aside from the nearby hotels. The women flash smiles at the door men before they nod and let them go down the stairs.

“Your martini, sir,” the bartender sets the glass down behind him. He flashes her a smile before he takes the drink and brings it up to his lips.

“Make it big,” he whispers softly before he drinks down the martini.

“3.”

Dick sets the glass down on the counter.

“2.”

Dick walks away from the counter, pausing a few steps to hold up his wrist and look at his watch.

“1.”

The chandelier that barely peeks out from underneath the top of the boat suddenly erupts in a burst, darkening the room from the loss of the main light source and filling the room with a symphony of shattered crystal smashing against wood panels. Dick flinches slightly, cursing under his breath in surprise because he didn’t expect Leonid to hit _that_ before he turns around, crouches down and darts down the stairs.

He doesn’t stop moving until he hits the bottom of the staircase, having to put his arms against closely compacted walls of the cabin in the belly of the yacht as it rolls with the waves. The hallway is a lot brighter than the now pitch dark stern. He hears various pitched moans coming from the closest doors to the exit and lets out a breath. _I love not being wrong._

Dick readjusts his tie and straightens out walking forward, past the two obvious bedroom doors.

“I hoped that sufficed,” Leonid grunts. “You will probably have few minutes before boat is surrounded.”

“Didn’t expect you to be one for drama, Leonid,” Dick presses against the second door on his left, his free ear pressed against it. He hears muffled talking, _Oh I like them big, master_. Dick quickly moves away from the door. Yeah, no thank you.

“How else did you expect to get down there? You needed something for two men, that was big enough.”

Dick can taste bitter upset in his mouth and being proven wrong, along with the fact that he will have to somehow get back up into the cabin of the boat without the guards giving him too much of a weird look. Hopefully, the trip down here wasn’t all for no reason.

He sighs and moves away from the door on the left and presses against the door on the right. This time he hears nothing. He takes a breath and reaches for the door handle, pushing it open slightly to peek inside.

He is greeted with darkness and runs his hand along both sides of the wall before meeting the light switch. As he flips it on, he blinks away the bright beams of sudden light to take inventory of the room.

It is rather bare, with a closet partially open with white bathrobes hung up on a rack inside. There is a large bed in the middle with nicely folded covers with blue rolling patterns moving across it. The bed looks untouched and Dick quickly turns off the light before shutting the door. He won’t find what he needs in a waiting room for paying customers.

The following two doors that come after it at the end of the hallway are likewise in use. Dick groans and rubs his temples. Okay, he thought there would be a lot more than just bedrooms on the lower cabin floors.

Thankfully at the end of the hallway there is a staircase, cramped against the hall that leads further down into the boat. Dick suspects that more rooms, perhaps a bathroom, resides at the bottom of the luxury yacht—he’s been on a fair amount of them both during and off work—however, he steps into the staircase anyway.

He presses his hands against the walls of the staircase, using them to help stabilize himself against the rocking of the boat. At the bottom of the staircase, a trip that takes him a good minute of slow descent he finds himself quickly back-peddling into the staircase itself.

“I should be in Moscow by Tuesday, I have to leave immediately, I can’t drop off the package, the trip alone takes four hours.” A man with light blonde hair, almost white, complains in heavily-accented, but proper English. He’s sitting in a chair, a crappy metal fold-up with a fabric bottom while his companion, an older man with a neatly combed beard stands with his back to the staircase.

“I have to get the boat back to Rize, unload the stock, and take inventory for missing merchandise. This is your duty.” The bearded man holds out a pair of car keys. “Knyazev already has the car loaded, all you have to do is drive. If you left now you would still make it to Moscow on time.”

 _Thank you for the hint of a ledger, gentlemen._  Dick presses himself further back into the staircase when the bearded man turns to the side. “You just want to stay here and enjoy the party. You’re supposed to be working right now, you can drink on your own time.

“I’m just finding it irritating that I have to drive four hours out of my way to deliver the package ASAP when I could just drop him into the ocean right here. No one would know.”

“Except divers,” the bearded man snaps back, unimpressed. “This is much cleaner, and we still need him for few more days.”

There’s the sound of keys clinking as they cut through the air before the slap against a waiting open palm. “Now hurry up. Car’s in the lot for the Belmond, you better hurry before he freezes.”

Dick hears the creak of the chair and takes a breath. Okay, confined stairway and there was only one of him, the bearded man may be easier to take out when he was by himself, but not now while he had someone watching his back. He hurries back up the stairs before the white-haired man reaches the bottom, quickly tiptoeing down the hall to the open room and slides inside shutting the door nearly all the way as he peeks out of the crack.

He can see white haired man walking down the hallway by himself and takes a calming breath. “Leonid, I’m going to need a timer.”

“What?”

The white-haired man passes in front of Dick’s door, looking at his watch just in time as Dick flings it open, grabs him by the shoulders and yanks him into the room.

Dick keeps the crook of his arm tight around the man’s neck as he chokes in surprise, closing the door behind them fast before the two of them are plunged into near totally darkness. Dick slaps his free hand over the man’s mouth and throws the two of them down on the bed, wrapping his legs around the man’s chest and clings to him like a facehugger from _Alien_ as the man claws at the arm around his neck. Dick pulls his arm tightly, wincing as the man tries to bite at the hand he is using to cover his mouth and acts like a dead weight, keeping himself heavy so that the man’s attempts to kick himself up off the bed and onto his feet fail.

After a minute of struggling the man’s attempts to escape grow weaker and Dick continues to strangle the man until his arms fall to the side and does not immediately fight back when Dick loosens his grip. He pushes the man off him with a cough, picking himself up and off the bed. He brushes off his coat and walks over to the door and flips on the lights.

“What did you want, Dick?” Leonid asks again, concern edging into his voice.

“Start the timer now, I have three minutes.”

Dick walks back over to where the body lays partway on the bed and picks him up, grunting at the effort as he hoists him up into standing position. He partly drags the man over to the closet, opening it up and shoving him straight inside. Dick reaches into his coat pocket, empty, before trying his other to pull out the keys.

“Thank you, my good man.” He puts his foot on the butt of the man to keep him from falling out as he grabs the cloth tie that goes around the bathrobe and pulls it free.

Dick grabs the door handle and pulls it shut, letting his foot come off the man at the last second. He takes the bathrobe cloth belt and ties it around the door handle to the closet, stretching it out as he ties it around the handle of the door before shutting off the lights. He takes a breath and brushes out his pant legs, taking a second to push back his hair.

“You have a minute.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Dick walks forward quickly, stuffing the keys into his pocket before he loudly climbs down the stairs.

The bearded man is there, sitting at a desk that is deeper in the room that Dick didn’t originally see. He starts to turn his head to see who is coming down the stairs but Dick doesn’t give him the chance, bolting across the small space and slamming his fist into the back of his head.

The man topples out of the chair and Dick leaps on top of him, wrapping his hands around his neck and choking him for good measure. The man is out faster than the one he caught by surprise upstairs, only barely putting up a fight from being disoriented from the punch. Dick picks himself up and off him when he stops moving.

Dick peers around the room.

There’s the desk in the corner of the room where the bearded man had sat, a deep, shiny brown covered in several papers and an open booklet. The rest of the room is bare save for the fold up chair that the earlier man had sat on. There’s faint brown specks that are speckled across the plain white floor and Dick guesses the room is a holding one, meant for newly brought in slaves or for interrogation, judging by the old blood marks.

Dick walks over to the desk and starts looking over the papers quickly.

“Thirty seconds.”

There are a few banknotes, withdrawals and deposits to banks in Turkey and Georgia in large amounts of the upper thousands, nothing beyond six digits, however. Dick looks at the book. It’s a registry filled with names of women and some men, their ages, as well as several dollar amounts next to their names with corresponding dates next to them. Well, there’s the ledger Leonid was asking for.

“Found your evidence,” Dick grabs the rest of the papers, the bank notes and the other scraps he hadn’t had time to look over and starts stuffing them into the booklet. “How does it look up there?”

“They have more lights on, I had to pull back, they started sending men out on dock. You will have hard time walking out.”

“I didn’t expect much,” Dick shoves the booklet into the inside of his coat pocket. “Where is the Belmond located?”

“You must give me moment to find out,” Leonid pauses before he mutters a curse under his breath. “How well can you swim?”

“Are you kidding me, Leonid? I don’t exactly have waterproof baggies on me for this,” Dick climbs back up the stairs, smoothing back his hair and the wrinkles on his suit. “Can’t you just shoot out a few more lights?”

“I do not know how much harm that will do,” Leonid says. “There is black, unmarked car pulling up to the yacht gate. You should leave now.”

Dick gets the stairs at the opposite end of the hallway and starts to climb. _Confidence, Dick, confidence!_

He only freezes up for a moment to look on either end of the door. The two goons are still in their original positions at the opposite end of the door, which Dick can appreciate. “Get ready to pick off anyone that tries to shoot my ass, thanks.”

“It's a big target.”

Dick walks up and out into the upper cabin. The main area of the boudoir-like space is clear; the couches and ottomans having been pushed to the sides of the room with the remains of the chandelier sprayed around mostly the center of the room. The party continues like nothing had happened, men doubled up on couches with women now that most of the space had been taken away. Dick only walks a few steps before he hears a loud “hey” behind him.

Dick stops, forces the panic in his gut to stay as he turns his head back to where the voice was coming from. He turns around slowly, eyeing the two goons who are looking at him with sudden interest. He blinks in surprise when he realizes that they weren’t the ones calling out to him.

He turns his head further around and sees the bartender glaring at him as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Come over here.”

“Is there a problem?” Dick asks with a casual tone. He can feel beads of sweat dripping down his back as he turns his body around fully to face the bartender and not just sprint off the boat like a bat out of hell. If he can afford to be discreet he will.

“You were one ruble short,” the bartender points to the empty martini glass sitting on the counter.

Dick forces out a laugh, hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand. “My mistake.” _Big mistake._

He reaches into his pocket for his wallet, walking over to the counter as he pulls it out. He fishes around for one ruble, hands shaking slightly in nervousness. He sets the ruble on the counter with a shaky smile and as he pulls away startles in surprise when the bartender slams her hand down on top of it.

“What were you doing down there, sir?” She asks in a light tone, glancing to the side and tilting her head. The men standing on either side of the staircase that leads down to the lower cabin drop their arms, the furthest one beginning to walk over.

“I was looking for the bathroom,” Dick says. Of course, she’d notice his sudden disappearance when the lights went out. He doesn’t wait to see if she buys it, slamming his fist down on the crook of the arm that is pinning his hand down. The moment she yelps in surprise and releases his hand he’s off like a shot.

He vaults over the broken remains of the chandelier lying in the center of the cabin, pushing his way through the guests who turn around to see the cause of the commotion. They act like stacked bags of sand, heavy and inconvenient obstacles that Dick has to shove his way through as the loud footfalls of the two men are close behind him. By the time he is outside the cabin itself the sea of people has mostly parted for Dick, with men and women quickly side stepping out of the way.

All except for a smaller and leaner man near the back of the boat who slips his hand inside of his jacket pocket.

“Leonid?” Dick shouts, watching as the new man withdraws his hand from his jacket pocket, the muzzle of a pistol gleaming in the boat lights. “Man near the back of the boat!”

“I see him.” The words come over the earpiece just as the man jolts like he was hit in the back before falling forward, a hole between his shoulders.

A woman, standing next to the man, shrieks as she throws herself away from the body, the rest of the boat’s members whipping their heads to see the new cause of drama. A few people close to the body of the man throw themselves to the ground to avoid fire and Dick nearly trips over the crouched figure of a man before he leaps onto the dock.

Dick stumbles momentarily, throwing his arms out to catch his balance before he straightens out and runs with one foot forward.

There’s the loud pop, pop, pop, of gunshots firing off behind him that hit the water with a vicious splash or crack into the wooden walkway of the dock. “Leonid!”

“I am taking care of,” Leonid responds. Dick runs faster, not waiting to turn around and see if Leonid is successful in picking off the men that are shooting at them.

Ahead of him, Dick can see the car that Leonid had warned him about earlier, pulled up right alongside the dock with men racing down the walkway to cut him off.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dick doesn’t wait to see if he can outrun the men when he meets them when the docks converge on each other. Instead, Dick glances to the side, sees the line of several parked boats that lead along the dock and up to the main office where considerably less guards are.

Dick veers left and leaps onto the small orange-striped motorboat that’s parked there. Dick hears angry shouting from further along the dock, but the blood pounding in his ears drowns it out into white noise. He stumbles over the sun-tanned leather seats and onto the bow before he jumps onto the weathered sailboat.

The jump is a little further than he guessed and when Dick grabs the metal railing along the sides of the sailboat his feet skim the water—his left leg disappearing into the black sea before he throws himself over the side of the boat.

He scrambles up and onto his feet, ignoring the icy chill in left leg from the water, and sprints up onto the bow of the sailboat before he leaps forward onto the dock.

Dick nearly trips off into the water, but manages to keep his balance and race along the dock, the unorthodox detour having proved slight successful in giving him a distance cushion between himself and the men that were after him.

He races on the dock, weaving as much as he can to avoid the bullets that shower him with water when they miss their mark.

“Come on Leonid!” Dick shouts. “There are more of them!”

Dick gets silence instead. He mutters a breathless curse and turns left, towards the start of the stairs that lead up to the yacht club’s main office. Dick takes the stairs two steps at a time and reaches into his coat to pull out the only weapon he had, a Bowie knife, just in time as he reaches the top.

The security guard that was positioned there earlier is waiting, arms spread open with a mean frown on his face. Dick can hear the footsteps nearing the stairs on the dock so Dick doesn’t waste any time.

He flings the knife forward and the guard, in shock at the motion, almost takes the blade to his eye as he flings himself suddenly out of the way. The moment the knife leaves Dick’s hand, he charges after it, but slightly out of reaching distance of the guard, and kicks open the door. He leaves the knife, embedded in the doorframe, and closes the door behind him.

The music inside the yacht club is loud, the beat of the bass shaking him from his feet up into his chest. The layout of the yacht club is a giant ballroom, filled with tables along the edge of the center room dance floor, with a stage crowded with musicians.

Dick barely hears the calls of “HEY,” from further in the room where, of course, more security guards are. Dick can even see Knyazev, at a table far in the back surrounded by men and women wearing probably thousands of dollars' worth in expensive designer clothing. What his eyes narrow in on, however, is the open window that's positioned above Knyazev's head.

If anything, Dick only pauses for a moment before he takes off in the direction of Knyazev’s table. He pushes his way through the crowd of people dancing in the center of the ballroom, buying his few precious seconds before the guards burst in through the entrance. He hears them scream behind him to stop, nearly tripping over himself as a pair of dancers freeze in front of him, but weaves to the side, elbowing a waiter in the process before he’s in front of Knyazev’s table.

The women at the corner of the round, plush bench before Knyazev looks away from the bombshell blonde on his right. Dick takes sweet satisfaction in watching the pervert’s face scrunch up in pink surprise as Dick leaps onto the table, making the food and glasses fly all over the entourage before he leaps out of the window.

“Leonid! Where are you!” Dick shouts again.

The back of the yacht club is a grassy hill sprinkled with wild rose bushes growing like weeds—as pretentious as that sounds—before it meets with the end of the parking lot. Dick charges up the hill, stumbling a little as he trips over the planter wall that surrounds the back perimeter of the yacht club, filled with white little daisies.

He glances towards the building he hopes Leonid is still watching him from as he hears the men, opening the door rather than following Dick out through the window. Their detour buys Dick just enough time to leap behind the cover of a parked car as they open fire.

“Leonid!”

“I am here, I am here,” Leonid suddenly says, panting into the earpiece. “I will get them.”

Dick doesn’t bother wasting time screaming back at him of where were you, instead bolting behind another car for cover as he makes his way back towards the main street, head down.

He doesn’t hear Leonid firing, but knows he is when he hears the muted thumps of bodies dropping onto the asphalt and cries of pain as the bullets tear into his pursers.

“Leonid, meet me at the café in Moscow, outside the American embassy in a week’s time. I’m going to have to lay lower than low for the next week.”

“I think grave would be perfect safe house for you then,” Leonid says as the gunshots drop off to one. “The Belmond is three blocks from here. North.”

“Save the jokes till you buy me a coffee, black, none of that artificial sweetener crap.” Dick slows to a jog when he reaches the sidewalk, stopping to bend over, hands on his knees as he catches his breath.

He stays like that for a moment before he straightens out with a wince, already feeling the aches in his legs when he threw himself onto the boats. He lets out a shaky breath, looks behind him before he takes the earpiece from his ear.

“Dick out.” He throws it down on the sidewalk and stomps on it as he continues down, looking around for any guards that may have come out to the main street. He reaches into his pocket and feels the hard plastic of the car key and sighs in relief.

Belmond hotel, three blocks, north. Hopefully, the car wasn’t rigged with explosives.

He won’t lie that he’s a little mad with how the night turned out and the realization he’s going to have to spend another few days laying low sours his mood.

He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and looks both ways before he crosses to the opposite side of the street and ducks down an alleyway. He doesn’t know how many eyes are on that side of the street watching out for the one he caused the party disruption and he isn’t about to be caught now.

He walks down the alleyway, littered with dirt despite being in the rich district of Sochi, stepping over the leg of a homeless man or women or whoever lies underneath a bundle of dirty rags behind a dumpster. He can hear voices, loud and shouting just beyond the entry way into the alleyway behind him. Dick guesses that by now the gala might have been interrupted, who was left of the party anyway, to search it for anyone fitting Dick’s description. He hopes that the other agents can blend in well enough or have found some place to buckle down and hide until the rest of the squad and cops arrive to provide back up. Leonid will take care of any other baddies that are willing to make a scene however.

Dick exits the alleyway and looks up and down the near empty streets now that he’s left the main roadway. He’ll be a little more out of place now in his suit and out at this hour with any passing car that may be coming to help Knyazev with clean up duty so he’ll have to keep to the alleyways or hide when he sees a car coming.

All in all it’s an annoying increase of difficulty when it comes to just checking out a car.

The trip to the Belmond hotel takes a total of twenty minutes from the amount of detours he has to use and the fact he gets lost on the way there two times. It’s dark and he can’t make out the signs that well—that and he has absolutely no idea where the hotel is in the first place—so he finds a woman feeding a mangy tom cat on the porch of her apartment building and asks her for the hotel’s street location.

She looks him up and down with an unimpressed sneer and mumbles something under her breath about lousy, posh bourgee and tells him it's another mile away on Saint Peter if he doesn't mind the walking. He thanks her for the obviously wrong instructions and walks ahead three houses where someone is pulling up to park and asks the much nicer, and saner, man.

The man gives him the right directions this time, but he has to backtrack to the last signal and by the time Dick finds the Belmond, a hotel whose neon letters are leaking rust stains beneath it. The building is like a beacon of light.

The parking structure for the Belmond is around the back. A big multi-level structure with four men that look as smelly as the cigarettes hanging out of the corner of their mouths standing in front of the drive in entrance.

Dick sighs, looks up towards the sky and curses whatever God has given him the luck of the night, before he walks over to the side of the building. Looking up at the gum covered wall, he crouches down before he leaps up and grabs the edge with the tips of his fingers.

Pressing his feet against the brick, he pushes himself up and over the wall with a grunt and looks around the nearly full first level and sighs.

Dick pulls the key from his pocket and begins the most boring part of his night.

Clicking the unlock button doesn’t help him find the car fast at all, but he isn't about to call the attention of the thugs out front by setting off the car alarm. It's something that would help him find the car fast sure, and it’s his normal tried and true method, but with his nervousness from the last time he did something that wasn't exactly too stealthy, i.e. that gave him a one-way ticket to Roman’s basement of fun times he isn't about to do it again.

After a ridiculous amount of time searching the first-floor Dick concludes that the car is not on the first floor. Joy. As if it would be that easy for him.

With a sigh and a wince from his sore feet and soaked, now icy, pant leg Dick walks up the incline to the second level. The second level, to his never-ending satisfaction, is less full than the first level so Dick can only hope that thug who parked the drop car was lazy enough that they parked on a lower level and not somewhere like the five or sixth, something a smart con would do.

To his chagrín after wasting ten minutes the second floor has no sign of the car and neither does the third. It is only after spending his time getting to the far side of the fourth floor does he hear the beautiful sound of a car unlocking.

He breathes in relief and slowly trudges over to the car, taking the time to click on the car keys to remind him he’s heading in the right direction.

The car he finds, to his happy surprise, is a brand new, unscratched black Tesla. He doesn’t question why it’s such an expensive car, hell he should have realized the car he was looking for from the keys alone, not that he had looked at the keys that long.

Dick laughs. “This your way of repaying me universe? Because I have no problem accepting _this._ ”

He smiles wider and opens the driver's seat, taking a moment to breath in the smell of fresh letter.

Glancing over the passenger's seat, nearly breaking down and crying from the perfect interior, practically unused, he finds nothing of value. Dick reaches down and opens the glove box. Inside there’s a crumpled-up piece of notebook paper, which he pulls out and unfolds. On the paper is an address with an out of country zip code that Dick recognizes is for southern Italy. Dick sighs and pinches his brows. Of course, never that easy.

He stuffs the paper into his pocket and steps back, clicking the button on the key to open the passenger’s side doors. He watches them click open and then slowly move up like the DeLorean from _Back to The Future._

Dick looks in the pockets on the back of the driver and passenger seat and finds nothing. Similarly, there’s nothing sitting on the back seats or in the center divider in the front.

Dick shrugs. “Always in the trunk, huh? Unless the car’s the product that needs to be delivered."

That makes more sense considering the absolute newness of the vehicle in the first place.

Dick waits for the side doors to re shut when he clicks the button before he walks around to the trunk of the car. He opens it up, notes the inside of the interior, a fine carpet, before he takes note of the blindfolded, gagged and bound body of a man.

“Ah," Dick says with a raise of his brows. So, this was the package. Dick leans forward and presses his fingers beneath the bottom of the man's ear. He waits momentarily to find a pulse and nods that, yes, the man is alive.

Three years ago Dick might have been taken aback at finding a body, dead or alive, in the trunk, but after finding more than a fair share worth it no longer registers as surprising or relieving to find them.

The man looks a little worse for wear, blood dots his shirt from a bloody nose blood now crusted over, in a loose shirt and pants with no shoes that Dick has come to recognize as the _torture room outfit._ Have to wear loose clothing if you want to be able to access all points of the body you know?

He reaches into his pocket to grab his knife before he curses, remembering he had threw it at the guard as a distraction. Perfect, another thing to suck away time. He might as well get the blindfold off.

Dick undoes the coarse material, pushing it up off of his head rather than trying to undo the double knot and leaps back in shock when he gets it off.

Of course, it's Tiger.

Dick waits one second before he, without thinking mostly, pinches the ever-living shit out of his hand. He whips his hand away with a curse when nothing happens to show that this is a dream right now and all he gets is a painful red mark on the skin between his them and index finger. Okay, so he isn’t dreaming, fuck.

Dick slowly walks back over to the trunk, a small step at a time to make sure that A. This isn’t a trap and Z. Tiger isn’t waiting for him with a Taser to zap him with. It’s too perfect of a situation.

But as Dick takes the final step over, right as his knee hits the Tesla’s bumper, he leans in to see that Tiger is still there, lights out and tied up in the car.

Okay, okay. He’s not about to get stabbed by the handsome enigma.

Dick glances to the left and right of the parking garage to make sure he’s not about to get jumped. Or punk’d because this situation just doesn’t happen in real life. Movies sure, real life? He’d end up with a bullet through his neck as he bleeds out on the concrete floor.

But his search for any of Roman’s men, or some other form of masked stranger winds up with nothing. He doesn’t even spot the lone Ashton Kutcher. Okay, so, this is happening.

Dick looks back at Tiger.

The right thing to do would be to wait until he wakes up, or at least try to wake him up and untie him, maybe ask for an explanation an offer to drive him some place for help and then the two of them be on their way and continue to hold true to their promise that they are not going to run into each other again. Except, the problem with that decision means that Dick, in his effort to be nice, gets no explanation as to why Tiger is in the back of this car in the first place.

And Dick knows he is selfish, and that's clearly why he has no problem, shutting the trunk with Tiger still tied up inside and walking back to the front of the car, opening the driver’s seat, getting in and starting the car. He justifies himself in the back of his mind. He needs to know what the fuck is going on he needs to find out who is the good guy and bad guy here. The idea that Tiger could have a lot of information about the men he’s trying to hunt down is a small thought that resides in the back of his head, momentarily overwhelmed by the loud and obnoxious idea that now Dick can finally get answers. Now Tiger can do nothing but tell him what the fuck is going on.

Dick has a week of lying low to complete and Tiger, who’s plans mostly consisted of dying if Dick is remembering the conversation of the two men on the boat right, has nothing better in his schedule that entertaining Dick’s questions. Besides Dick just saved Tiger’s life so that should count for something in the long run of things.

No matter, Dick starts up the car, slowly pulls out of the parking space and drives out, down the levels and past the men smoking in the entryway that whistle, loud enough for Dick to hear after him as he drives out. Certainly, not being discreet with this car, but at least it isn’t some expensive car like a Rolls Royce or something.

Dick uses side streets on leaving the Belmond parking structure, just in case there’s any of the traffickers’ cars patrolling after the stunt he pulled at the yacht club roaming around. He uses them until he gets out of Sochi and, to be extra cautious because that’s his style now, takes the back road through miles of countryside over the highway to get to his safe house, three hours away in the neighboring city.

Dick is positive that Tiger wakes up some point along the long drive. Because he didn’t know how long Tiger had been sitting in the car before Dick found him and the fact that around hour two he starts hearing thumps from the trunk.

After confirming that there were no road bumps to make Tiger’s unconscious body slide around to create the thunk Dick nods that yes, he is awake. Hopefully, Tiger stays restrained long enough for Dick to reach the safe house. He doesn’t want to pop open the trunk and have Tiger leap onto him Ken Jeong _Hangover_ style.

Not that, Dick would mind having to hold Tiger’s naked body, if he was going to be completely honest. But you know _priorities._

Dick shakes his head. Stop thinking with your, dick, Dick you’re a professional.

When Dick reaches the safe house, on the outskirts of Izmaylovka a small city at the base of a mountain range, it’s five in the morning and the sky is beginning to brighten in the East at the arrival of the morning sun.

Dick pulls up around back of the cottage that had been given to him at the start of his stay in Russia and hides the Tesla behind one of the large bushes. He parks and steps out into the frigid morning air, nearly sliding on his face when his dress shoe slips out from under him on the ice on his driveway. Carrying Tiger is going to be a nightmare.

He gets out, closes the door behind him and walks to the trunk. He takes a breath and, like a woman trying to bat a spider down from the roof with a broom, snaps his hand out to open the trunk and takes cover behind the side of the car.

When Tiger doesn’t spring from the car completely unbound, Dick peeks his head over the side and sees Tiger fully awake, restrained just as tightly when Dick first found him and bristling like an angry wet cat.

Realizing that he’s not in any danger of getting maimed a little smirk comes to Dick’s face as he props his elbows up on the side of the trunk and rests his chin against his hands.

“Morning, sleeping beauty, did you have a nice nap?”

Tiger glares at him through a slightly swollen eye. Dick steps away from the car and walks around to the trunk, trying not to pay too much attention to the utter face melting vibes that Tiger’s cold stare is putting out. Dick leans down to slip an arm underneath Tiger’s legs when the he makes a muffled noise and jerks away.

“What?” Dick looks up at Tiger as Tiger looks down at the gag and then back to Dick. Dick laughs.

“What and have you bite me? Sorry, not taking that kind of chance with you.” Dick goes back to slipping an arm underneath Tiger’s legs and then behind his back. Tiger, of course, to make every single moment of Dick’s life difficult, begins squirming immediately and Dick smacks his head hard against the trunk.

“Ow,” Dick shouts and drops Tiger back into the trunk as he reaches up to press a hand on the fresh tender spot. “Shit, why do I always get hurt when you’re involved?”

Tiger gives him a self-satisfied look and is much more cooperative when Dick re-lifts him.

Dick walks away from the car and takes careful steps across the icy driveway and up the steps onto the porch of the cabin. Grateful that he doesn’t need a key to unlock the door, he reaches towards a wood panel next to the door and presses his hand against it. He keeps it there for a moment before he hears a soft click of the door opening and steps away from the wall.

He grabs the handle and opens the door to the dark cabin, taking a moment to walk inside and not bump Tiger against the door frame before he sets Tiger down on a couch near the door. After setting him down he goes back out to lock down the car, shut the door and turn on the lights.

The cabin is small, the living room of the cabin being attached to the kitchen with a small upstairs that leads to a bedroom and a washing room. The living room only has an ugly rug, covered in dark green designs with gold spirals with only one couch and two chairs on either side. There’s a small coffee table covered in dust and rings from drink glasses in the center of the awful furniture. There’s a grand brick fireplace with a few logs of wood but thankfully there’s also a radiator that is pressed against the wall near the entrance to the kitchen already working.

The fact that the cabin is already warm means that Leonid sent the word out to the police station in the nearby mountain city to get it all ready for him. The thought wipes away the tension he didn’t realize he was holding in his shoulders, working a tired sigh from his lips. The disaster at the docks had prevented him from sticking around to see what complication had Leonid to go silent for those few minutes. He’s glad that he’s okay. Not dead.

Dick turns back to Tiger, who’s starting to struggle with the ropes again and Dick notices in the bright light from the cabin rather than the minuscule trunk light that his arms are red from the rawness of being rubbed against the rope binding his forearms together.

“Easy, easy, Tiger, sweetheart,” Dick chides as he walks over and takes his shoulder, pulling him up from his laying down position so he can sit up straight. “You’re going to work your way down to the muscle before I even get to take those off.”

Dick bites his lip.

He doesn’t want to untie Tiger. Untying Tiger would mean trusting him to not run away and Dick, despite allowing Tiger to care for him and that he would not kill him after rescuing him from the basement does not think Tiger would extend the same amount of trust on to Dick. But it isn’t like Dick wants to keep him bound in such an uncomfortable way either. He’ll probably have to exchange the ropes for handcuffs and then tie around fabric or at least secure the handcuffs to something immovable at night.  
  
_A lot of work for one man,_ Dick groans.

Dick reaches up and works on the tight knot of the gag, humming softly as he digs his fingernails into the coarse fabric. “So,” Dick looks at Tiger, catching a good look at how his brown eyes catch the light and turn a bright amber near gold. “How did you end up like this?”

After a minute Dick pulls away the spit-soaked gag and dangles it away from them, pinched between two fingers in disgust. Tiger licks his chapped lips.

“Long story,” Tiger’s voice is a rough and harsh whisper, cracking on the second letter before all that comes out is a pitiful noise.

“Jesus, Tony, no need to scream it,” Dany teases, but gets up making his way to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. He searches the cabinet, pulls out a glass he hoped the last agent who used the cabin or at least the maid, cleaned, fills it with water from the sink when he finds the fridge empty and walks back to Tiger.

He sits down besides Tiger and offers the cup to his lips, which Tiger accepts without a fuss and takes a few long sips from it. When he’s done, Dick sets the glass down on the coffee table and looks back at him.

“You aren’t going to untie me?” Tiger’s voice is no better than it was a moment ago, but at least it doesn't crack and die out halfway through. Dick props his elbow up on the couch and rests his chin in his hand.

“Tiger, buddy, now If I did that how would I keep you here and finally get some goddamn answers out of you?”

Tiger’s frowning before the words even leave Dick’s mouth. Dick feels a little bad, a little, because they both know that Dick sure as hell deserves it after how much information Tiger has on Dick.

“Don’t look at me like that, Tiger,” Dick scolds, turning away from the haggard face to get up. He knows the first aid kit is upstairs. With any luck the last agent or maid left another suitcase. Hopefully, Dick’s uniform of a Russian police officer is still here. That way he can keep Tiger restrained with the handcuffs but keep him muck more comfortable.

“You aren’t being a very gracious host,” Tiger says, sarcastic underneath the hoarseness of his voice.

“I’m being a very smart host,” Dick teases as he walks into the kitchen. He opens a few of the cupboards and find them relatively full. Dick sighs quietly in relief that whoever stayed here last time had the decency to restock the kitchen. Or the men from the station that Leonid, hopefully spoke too, had taken care of the shopping on his drive out.

He steps away from the kitchen when he couldn’t find any sort of first aid kit. He walked back into the living room, glanced at Tiger to make sure he was still sitting there. He was, of course, probably too tired to make any escape attempt right now.

Dick walks upstairs and turned left immediately into the master and only bedroom in the cabin. He decides to check the nightstand last and moved into the small bathroom, opening the drawers under the sink. The first only had a minuscule toothpaste tube and three packaged toothbrushes. The second drawer had razors along with shaving cream and the third was stuffed full of bandages, cauterization packages, suture casing and needles, rubbing alcohol and even morphine.

Dick shakes his head with a sigh. “Never enough, huh guys?”

He grabs the rubbing alcohol along with the bandages before he shut the door, pausing to grab a towel hanging in the bathroom, clean thank god, before he walks downstairs.

Tiger watches him approach, squinting hard making his face scrunch up in an odd shape that mimicked what Tiger would probably end up looking like if he made it to 80.

“My mom said if you hold your face like that for too long it will stay that way,” Dick chides, sitting down on the couch besides Tiger. He lays the supplies down on the coffee table before he turns to face Tiger, reaching out with one hand to take his chin gently. He moves his face carefully from side to side as he analyzes Tiger’s wounds.

His face, thankfully, looks relatively untouched, if anything there are a few bruises that stretch from his eye down his nose to his lip. The bruising itself isn’t all that bad either, a light yellow and brown against Tiger’s already tan skin. The bruises, more than likely, have already been on the healing process for a few days now. That or they were never bad to begin with, possibly due to his face hitting a wall or the trunk of the car while he was being loaded up than from someone’s fist.

“Well, I have good news, you’ll still be handsome after this,” Dick grins.

“Ha ha,” Tiger deadpans. “My modeling career will be safe for another day.”

“Don’t be rude,” Dick scolds, flicking at his shoulder. “This is good news you should be celebrating.”

“The rest of my body is finding it hard to agree with you.”

“Where does it hurt, honey-bun?” Dick coos, already pushing up Tiger’s shirt to get a look at his chest and abdomen.

“Hey!” Tiger kicks his legs out, falling back against the arm of the couch in the process.

Dick, having a lot more energy and balance, let’s go of the shirt and merely leans back, watching Tiger with a mocking huff.

“You washed my dick, I think I can check out your chest,” Dick grabs his shirt and pulls him back up into sitting position, watching the way Tiger winces when he’s lifted off his back.

“You could have given me a little warning.”

“I woke up to you with my dick in your hands, I think I can see your nipples without a little bit of forewarning,” Dick pushes up his shirt, rolling it up beneath Tiger’s armpits so he doesn’t have to hold it up the entire time he examines him.

“I did tell you, you must have forgotten from the effect of the medicines you were on. That and you were exhausted beyond belief.”

“Then you should have waited before you cleaned junior,” Dick looks up at him with a little playful smile on his lips. “Or did you just want to get a peek and didn’t expect me waking up?”

“You’re vile,” Tiger says, flatly.

“You weren’t this mean last time, I want old Tiger back.”

“You were ill last time,” Tiger clarifies. “You needed someone to care for you and help you. You obviously don’t need that now.”

Dick mock gasps, feigning horror as he raises a hand to his chest in offense. “Tiger not all wounds are visible to the naked-eye. You’ve just reopened the stitches on my heart you foul man.”

Tiger huffs and looks up towards the ceiling. Dick smiles and looks down at his chest for the first time. Dick’s smile falls immediately.

There’s bruising, dark and purple with little spots of ruby red around his ribs. The bruises travel downwards to a nasty cut, pink with infection that starts from his left and moves down above his belly button. The wound is deep but scabbed over, but Dick can still see the shiny lining of mucus beneath some of the scabs that’s keeping his hot and bloody guts from spewing out all over the coffee table.

“Shit, Tiger, what did they do to you,” Dick barely touches the bruises on his ribs and Tiger is already moving away from his hand in obvious pain.

“To be completely honest, I’m surprised they didn’t manage to kill me.”

“Yeah, likewise,” Dick whispers sitting back and glancing down at the bandages on the table. “I don’t think I have enough vodka in the house for this never mind the whole city. You could go in to septic shock before the night’s over.”

“Let's hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Dick sits back against the couch and runs a hand through his hair with a deep and conflicted sigh hissing out through his lips. He can’t take Tiger to the hospital. They’ll ask too many questions and the hospital out here at the base of the mountain is no better than an outback trailer for hicks and farmers. Nothing that can probably handle an injure of this caliber. They’ll have to fly him out to a more qualified one and who knows what kind of eyes may be on the look out there.

“What does it look like,” Tiger is laying back against the couch, trying to catch his breath it short little gasps.

“You mean you haven't seen this monstrosity yet?” Dick asks in surprise.

“There have been more important things to take care of first, honestly,” Tiger sighs and looks up to the ceiling. “And I've been afraid to bend any more than I have to look at it. I think I may have a broken or cracked rib.”

“That’s the least of your worries right now,” Dick says, eyeing the gut wound. “I'm surprised they didn’t use your guts to tie you up.”

“Enough of the dramatics, Dick," Tiger grunts as he adjusts himself into a laying down position on his back. “Can you please get a mirror?”

Dick nods and gets up. He doesn’t know where to start looking for a hand-held mirror so he goes back upstairs and searches the bathroom. The drawers for the bathroom reveal much of nothing. There are the essentials mostly. The cabin was not meant for long periods of time staying inside or staying at the cabin to live there. A handheld mirror, surprisingly, was probably not on the top of the list for essentials. Dick curses and looks up at the mirror in the bathroom. It's small, held on by a dark wooden frame and Dick, with nothing else quickly on hand without having to make a run into town, grabs the edges of the mirror frame and slowly lifts it away from the wall and off the two nails it’s hanging from.

He carefully walks down the stairs towards the living room ignoring the “are you kidding” from Tiger as he slowly moves onto the coffee table and props it up.

Tiger glances over from his position lying on his back and sighs.

“Do you expect me to sit back up to see?”

“Well I don’t think I’m going to be able to position it correctly over you and you don’t have the arms or the strengths to hold it so yes.” Dick wastes no room for argument and Tiger, with a tired groan, agonizingly begins it sit up.

It takes him a good few minutes, scooting himself back on the arm of the couch and pulling himself up an inch at a time rather than bending at the waist and turning. Dick holds the mirror up and sits there awkwardly, not jumping forward to help for really no reason other than he wasn’t thinking and now he’s embarrassed that he didn't offer to help in the first place.

Tiger swings his legs back over the couch and gets back into his former position, finally rolling his head to the side when he pauses.

“You're going to have to bring it closer to me.”

“I’m an inch in front of you,” Dick says, exasperated.

“I’m sorry,” Tiger says, flatly. “My eyes aren't exactly my greatest asset right now. If you will then.”

Dick flushes in embarrassment and scoots as close as he can without getting in to Tiger's lap. Tiger studies himself in the mirror with a grim expression, leaning forward even further until his nose is practically brushing against the mirror.

“Can you see any better?” Dick says, lacking the ability to fidget with his hands preoccupied with holding the mirror straight.

“Barely,” Tiger tilts his head to the side while his eyes stay transfixed on his reflection. "My glasses weren’t just for fashion.” He sighs in obvious relief before he leans a little way back and observes his chest, starting at the top.

“I know that you are probably. . .set in your plan of what you’ve decided to do, however, I’d very much appreciate it if you, perhaps, untied so that I may get a better idea of how bad the wounds are.”

Dick is tempted to refuse. Not out of meanness, but rather of a strange idea of fear that if he gives Tiger the chance to get away even as mortally wounded as he is he will. But the idea is a stupid one because he doubts is in any condition to walk to the kitchen to make a meal, let alone crawl to the bathroom than run all the way into town and disappear into an underground sewer. Or wherever Tiger spends his off time when they aren’t currently in each other’s presence.

Dick nods, knowing he has better restraints anyway and sets the mirror down and heads into the kitchen to find a knife that will do a decent job cutting the ropes away. He finds a large, serrated steak knife after a few minutes of searching and heads back out to the living room. Tiger leans forward slightly so Dick can get to the ropes and begins cutting. The knife doesn’t do nearly as good of a job as Dick assumed, catching on the ropes and getting stuck several times on tight threads, but eventually the ropes fall free from Tiger’s purple wrists, caked with dry lines of blood.

Tiger shakes his hands with a little breath of relief before he brings them up slowly to his chest. Tiger grits his teeth as he moves them around, pressing on his ribs as he sucks in deep breaths before he let's go.

“Well?” Dick says after a moment.

“Lucky, they're cracked not broken. Still hurts, but there's less to worry about this way.”

“Hm, I guess there’s a silver lining to everything,” Dick says. “What do you think of the cut? Will you live?”

“I would be better if I had hospital assistance,” Tiger admits. “But it’s nothing that I can’t fix on my own.”

“Are you insane have you seen that cut?”

"I have," Tiger glares at him with the same sort of unimpressed disdain you'd show a child that asked too many questions and didn't wait their turn. "I've had worse."

"You've had worse than that?"

"It's the blood, the knife barely breached the abdominal muscle wall. I need stitches, bandages, and maybe antibiotics. That's it. Does this safe house have any of the following materials?"

Dick remembers the suture kits below the bathroom sink beside the piles of gauze. "Hang on."

He returns a few minutes later with the morphine, suture kit and more bandages from the bathroom. Tiger eyes the equipment carefully before he looks at Dick. "I'm going to need you to wash your hands."

"Why?"

"Because I'd rather not have your dirty fingers infecting my wound. Go wash and come back. I'll administer the morphine myself." Tiger readjusts himself on the couch. It occurs to Dick then that Tiger, skin wet from fever sweats, covered in a variety of bruises is not only still striking—which is obvious, really, if Dick's going to be honest about it—but could make Dick so angry that he takes almost physical joy out of imaging Roman's sad face in prison.

"Is now a bad time to bring up the fact I have butterfingers?"

Tiger curses in Arabic. Or at least what Dick thinks might be Arabic. He did mention in the elevator, what now seems like a century ago, he wasn’t actually Arab. "What does the Justice League teach you? Nothing, save for how to get caught and make a scene apparently. How did you even graduate as a special agent?"

"I slept with the teacher," Dick says then corrects at the sight of Tiger's glower. "I tried very hard and got a perfect score. Just trying to lighten the mood."

"Somehow that sounds more like a lie than your pitiful disguise in Cairo. Go on then. I'm losing a quite a lot of blood."

"Someone's tetchy when they've been stabbed."

Dick, as much as Tiger would like to pretend it's untrue, actually knows a thing or two about battlefield medicine. He moves to the kitchen and looks around for a bowl big enough to hold water, which when he doesn’t find he decides to use a pot. Good enough. Finds a clean dishrag beneath the sink and sets that to the side before he washes his hands at least three times beneath scalding water then fills the pot with lukewarm. He hurries back into the living room where Tiger's set up the morphine drip, holding the bag over his head so the fluid flows down. Dick sets the pot on the floor with the rag in the water and pulls over a coat rack to hold the baggy up.

"Apologies in advance," Dick says. They can't wait for the morphine to kick in so Dick is careful, clearing away the blood with the water. It takes several minutes before enough of the dark blood is cleared away for Dick to see it. Tiger's right, it's not too deep and is survivable so long as they care for it and keep an eye on the possibility of future infection. Dick opens the suture kit and guesses Tiger will need at least seven stitches to successfully close the wound.

"Do you want to wait any longer?" Dick tries; aware at how excruciating it's going to be. Tiger, who's starting to look distressingly pale, shakes his head.

"Just close it, we'll worry about the pain later."

Dick nods and threads the stitching through the curved needle and pinches together a portion of Tiger's skin. Then he slides the needle through. Tiger handles it a lot better than Dick expected. Then again Dick probably would have been out cold from the pain. At the very least there would be a lot of screaming. Tiger muffles his groans into one of the coach pillows. Digging his teeth into the fabric, pitifully whining every time the pointed end slides inside the bloody, raw meat.

Trying to reduce the pain Tiger feels by working fast, Dick moves quick and effective. It pays off. He finishes in less than ten minutes. Tying the end, he then presses the gauze against the stitches before wrapping it.

"Thanks," Tiger pants. "It wasn't good but it will do."

Insulting, yes, but his voice is considerably less weak than before. Dick gives him a pass, because he'd be a little rude having a needle slide through an open wound with physical awareness. too "That's one way to thank the guy who just saved your life."

Tiger scowls at him and for a moment Dick assumes he's about to get another insult when Tiger sighs. "You're right, that was rude, I'm sorry. I don't handle pain well."

"Wow," Dick smiles. "There's a first for everything it seems."

"Don't push your luck. I've lost an insane amount of blood and can barely hear myself think without a throbbing headache." Tiger closes his eyes and rubs his temples.

"Fortify the house just in case one of the men tailed use from the car park. Check in with me every hour to make sure I’m not developing a fever. If I am cool me down, then wake me. I’ll tell you what to do." Tiger leans further back against the couch. "I'm going to sleep."

"Sweet dreams, Tiger," Dick says. Tiger flips him off before succumbing to exhaustion.

* * *

The cabin has a nice set up in the mountains. It's too far off road for anyone to notice on the drive out, surrounded by a thick clustering of trees and foliage that keeps it concealed even from high-altitude. There are a few more defenses within the walls of the house itself that keep it invisible to heat-seeking planes or thermal vision. Aside from that the security of the house is relatively basic. There's an alert system you'd find in any home with maybe one or two extra cameras further out in the woods watching the paths.

There's a car, fully loaded and stocked that's changed every few months if needed for a hasty getaway. A hidden closet, filled to the brim with different selections of weaponry, is upstairs. Most of it is ammunition for the several rifles and even smaller number of handguns inside. There are a few silencers but that's it in terms of defense.

The RF SVR doesn't expect a lot of bad people to know about their various hideouts. The exception is none of them have housed Dick before and unlucky might as well be his middle name. Because of that Dick feels extremely bare in their cottage. Making improvements isn't an optional course of action. He'll have to do something.

There are other methods to set up an alarm system without needing multiple cameras. Dick goes out on a hike after doing a short stock of the premise and walks a circle about five miles around the safe house. There are a few places he tags as possible entry points for sneak attacks and leaves a few traps there that will set off a warning at one of the few places there are cameras. A simple string and bell trap does wonders.

Eventually, Dick returns once he's done. Checks Tiger's forehead and finds him the opposite of feverish, instead he's shivering from the cold. Dick takes some of the blankets from the upstairs and wraps them around Tiger, settling him down and propping it up to not put too much pressure on his ribs.

It's kind of weird, looking at Tiger now, out cold on the couch. He's only ever seen the man on the verge of anger, poised to beat Dick's ass in with the nearest blunt object he can find. That or so terribly aggravated there was a high probability that he might have just knocked himself out—if only to spare himself more exasperation.

Brushing the bangs from Tiger's face, Dick pauses. There are three scars, close together, that run down the middle of his forehead. Old, but they must have been deep to be so obvious, skin much lighter and raised above than the rest. Must cover it up with make-up all the time. Too obvious a physical tell for anyone to not take into account. _Yet another mystery to add to the pile._ Dick snorts, thumb gently running up and down along the uneven skin.

"Didn't realize how appropriate your nickname was until now," Dick says to himself. "Definitely would have helped me know it was you if I saw this before."

Standing, Dick heads into the kitchen to start making a dinner for the two of them. Beef with a side shake of dark green foods, including kale and nuts, specifically meant for replenishing Tiger's lost blood count. It won't be enough he'll needs a transfusion, but the cottage doesn't come equipped with stand-by blood packs. Unfortunate.

Dick goes about alerting Leonid in the middle of cooking a slice of beef.

"Leonid?"

A gasp. "Dick, I have been trying to get in contact with you for hours. Where are you?"

Oh, right, this, well this is going to be a lot more difficult to explain than he thought. The only saving grace is that Leonid is, hopefully, far away and not about to beat his ass for going off mission scope. Again.

"Well," Dick starts, "I feel like you're going to tell me I’ve done something super stupid and I kind of want to go on with my life without knowing I've disappointed you so badly."

"Dick."

"We're at the safe house outside Sochi. I found Tiger, the man I told you about. You know, the one who saved my ass from being a red smear in Roman's basement and watched over me for a couple days? He was in the trunk of one of Knyazev’s cars and wasn't looking too hot. Which is so sad because he always looks so hot when he hasn't been stabbed."

"Dick," Leonid growls. "Do not tell me you have brought him with you."

"Ok, I won't tell you how I have him laid up on the couch healing from a stab wound. Instead, I'll tell you all about this favor I need. How does that sound?"

"..I'm reporting you for insubordination." There's a shuffle of paper and Dick is stuttering out words before he even knows what he's saying.

"I totally get that Leonid I do, but I really need a week maybe two, alright? I literally have a lead on the Sionis case sitting in the living room. Tiger's worked with Roman, has ties with the Orpheus from Cairo and Italy. He is literally a walking Google search bar when it comes to Roman Sionis' black-market dealings."

"Another agent can interrogate him. I am under explicit instructions to keep you in my sight at any and all times." Yeah, and Dick knows who gave him those orders. "You need to come back."

"I get it, Leo. I'm not asking you to lie for me, okay? Just, keep quiet like we originally planned and play dumb when our meeting date comes and goes. I can handle the heat." A long shot. Dick is on a probationary period with his agency status, it's why he is always partnered with another agent instead of investigating on his own. The reason for it is buried so deep and dark in the back of Dick's brain that when a Leonid opens his mouth, probably to remind him exactly why Dick is being passed off from babysitter to babysitter Dick cuts him off.

"You want these people safe and sound as much as I do. I'll give you updates on what's going on, I never won't be in contact with you, but please, all I'm asking is a little bit of time to see what I can find out from one of Roman's men."

There's silence and finally a long sigh. "I don't like this."

"As you've said," a great breath leaves him, making him stand there weakly on shaking feet. "I need something else too. Tiger was in a bad way when I found him and I need some antibiotics and a few blood packs. He needs a transfusion and there are no hospitals in the area I trust right now."

"That is another very big favor."

"I'll help you out in any way I can after this, ok? Two weeks time and more medical supplies. After this I'll write you a letter of recommendation to the League and kiss your ass like I was born to do it."

Leonid groans. "Fine, I'll have an agent over by dawn tomorrow with your order. I'm going to hold you to this Dick."

"Believe me I'm aware you will."

Dick hangs up and sets the phone down. Glances towards Tiger's sleeping form and sighs. "You're going to hate me for this."

Here's the thing about international espionage. Most countries have a roster that can be easily hacked into if you know the right place to look. Technically Dick works for the American branch of the Justice League but that doesn't mean he can't enter another country's systems by pretending to be an agent that's deceased. Most of those contracts are terminated upon the signed death certificate, but if you know the right password you can reinstate yourself into the system and no one's the wiser. Until, that is, you are picked up on the servers. Dick has at least five minutes per server to find out what kind of organization Tiger might work for.

So, he settles down on the couch across from Tiger, after collecting a sample of his blood and analyzing it in the computer. Type O negative, and then starts scanning through databases. The most obvious intelligence agencies in the Middle East turn up with nothing. Then Dick moves onto North America and, when that doesn't work, he moves to South. By the time one AM finally rolls around he's has checked nearly every known and unknown secret intelligence service in the world without finding anything. It's almost like the man is a ghost, which would make things a shit ton more complicated if this man is an ethereal being who just appears and disappears when he pleases.

See above, haunted by the sexy scar ghost.

Dick rubs his temples and tries to think of another way to identify him. He could ask Leonid for another favor but that would only add to the tab he was currently running. That was something he absolutely did not want to do under any circumstances. So, he sighs closes the laptop and picks up his phone and calls the one man he didn't want to call in the first place.

"Hello?" Tim says. "Dick?"

"Hi, yeah long time no see, right?" Dick can picture the displeased frown on Tim's face. Hears the muffled groan far off and imagines Tim snuggling up with his pregnant jackass of a wife. Barf. "I need a favor."

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Tim says. "Where are you?"

"Not too far from you actually. In Russia doing a human trafficking case, you know, the good stuff. I need a favor."

"Can it wait? We've been up half the night already."

"I would if this wasn't a top priority kind of thing. I need information like yesterday and I already spent like seven hours trying to solve the identity of this guy and it's driving me insane."

 _If you say yes I'll kill you_ Steph says _._ "You owe me."

"Get in line I currently owe half the world a favor at this point. Can you look up a mercenary or spy that might work for an underground organization? Like, deep, deep underground."

A pause. "Do you know how long that will take?"

"Yes, believe me I wouldn't be asking you if I had that amount of time already. As it happens I am currently caring for someone with a gut wound the size of my fist."

There are groans and a few muffled curses from what must be Stephanie from the other side of the bed before Tim replies. "Do you have anything to give me that will make it easier?"

"I have a blood type and a face."

"It would be easier with fingerprints, if you can send those to me we might have an easier time identifying him."

"I'll try and get you a clear print, but I wouldn't expect much."

"Thanks Dick," Tim hangs up and Dick stares at Tiger's unconscious form on the bed. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you are?"

Dick doesn't have the right equipment to get a fingerprint off Tiger but does his best to get a partial. Does this by sticking a piece of tape to the bottom of Tiger's thumb and then dusting it with a light layer of flour. It gets a good amount on the thickest part of the finger and that is mostly all it manages to take off. Dick's just glad he could get any of it at all. He sets it against paper and scans it in to Tim.

He wakes Tiger up at some point and feeds him a few bites of his dinner before he falls back to sleep. Weighed down by the morphine and the remaining pain.

With nothing else to do besides wait for instruction from Tiger or anyone else. Dick goes to sleep, haunted by dreams of lightless black with the curved white crescent of a sharp-toothed grin.

* * *

He wakes up early before dawn to a call. A text alert from an unknown number that informs him his packages have been delivered about three miles away over ten minutes ago in a discreet bunker. Dick found it the day before and assumed it had acted as a drop zone. He's unsurprised to have been proven correct. There are no calls from Leonid or Tim.

He checks on Tiger, finds his status has barely changed from the night before, if anything a little warmer now from the nestled blankets on top of him. Dick leaves him, if not before slipping a few drops of water into his throat without waking him and then sets off outside. He finds the bunker and the cooler filled with several packets of blood and the instructions on how to store it appropriately in the house. He takes it back to the house, sets it up alongside the drip and tapes the needle filling Tiger's veins with blood to the crook of his arm.

It’s around that time he finally gets a call from Tim. It isn't good.

"He works for an independent contracting agency called Spyral. Dick, this network is wanted in collaboration with several terrorist efforts in South America, Georgia, and the United States.

"That doesn’t make any sense. If that were true why did the traffickers leave him to die in the trunk of a car? Why did he bother saving me when he knows who've I've been from the start?"

"I don't know," Tim says. "What I do know is that this agency barely has one sheet of paper with information. I had to search through the Russian's red files to even find a name. He's Tiger King, twenty-eight from Kandahar, moved to Smallville when he was eighteen. He's been spotted all over the world and is, according to hierarchy, one of the top agents in Spyral. They're all wet workers. This is beyond dangerous, there's no telling where the rest of his agency is. They could kill you and recover him and we wouldn't even know how they found you."

"Well we've more or less been waltzing with each other across Europe for the past year, I think I'll be ok in this case." At least he hopes he will be. "It at least explains how he feel in with Roman's gang in any case, not that I'm surprised. Tiger looks like the type of guy you'd pay for his muscles not his brains."

But he was smart. Wickedly so.

"I think you should alert Leonid or someone else in the Russian government at least. Do you know how many people this man might have killed? He's been suspected of assassinations all over the world."

"But he hasn't tried to kill me yet."

"Just because he hasn't tried to kill you doesn't mean he won't. Like a terminator robot that's ready to slice you apart the moment someone gives him the command. This is dangerous Dick."

"My work is dangerous. Scratch that, everything I do is dangerous. Just relax. Thank you for the information, means I'll be a lot more prepared when I pull the wool over his eyes."

"Yeah, somehow I doubt you'll be able to pull that trick on a man who was literally born to disappear. Just don't get yourself killed okay? I'm going to be monitoring your progress from a distance. I don't need you dying before I can name you godfather of our child."

"He wishes," Stephanie's voice cuts over the phone.

"Yeah, okay I'll keep that in mind." Dick hangs up and cooks breakfast for himself. Makes sure the blood is properly stored before he walks over to Tiger's side and wakes him up.

"Come on Sleeping Beauty, it's time to eat, let’s go."

Tiger grumbles and rolls over on the bed. "I don't think I was ever this rude to you when you were dying in my apartment."

"Yeah well, you didn't order the Dick Grayson room service special when you refused tell me you were working for Spyral."

Dick has once seen a dog, loving and compassionate that was known to lick rather than bite tear out his owner’s throat. There was no reason as to why the dog did it. It hadn't been abused or neglected throughout its pampered life. It just one day snapped and when Dick found it crouching over the body of its trainer with blood oozing past the lips of its mouth it smiled at Dick. Wagging his nail and snuffling forward to greet him with a bump of his head. Unexpected, totally and utterly terrifying and, to this day, is the scariest thing Dick's ever seen.

That's the kind of vibe he gets watching Tiger, still too weak to move, stare up at him. Startled, amber eyes wide with a glint of something underneath it all. Dangerous, like the only thing that's spared Dick from a slit throat is Tiger's inability to move.

"Dick," Tiger starts and he speaks slowly, like he almost doesn't trust himself with what he's about to say. Or maybe do. "I want you to think very carefully about what you're saying."

"I know what I'm saying," and that's kind of a pain to admit isn't it? That the man that literally saved him from the brink of death is a country-hopping terrorist who will—most likely—kill him once he's done talking. Knowing Tiger, he hopes it's elegant and not with a paper clip or something equally lame. "You work for an agency called Spyral, an independent organization that does jobs for anyone that can pay enough to hire you. That you're wanted in several nations for terrorist activities and that the Brazilian authorities know you as "Tiger King." I know who you are from what little the Russian red files could tell me. And you know the Russians, they tend to keep tabs on anything that doesn't fit the whole "Putin-approved" evil shit."

Tiger listens quietly, staring at him with a casual but slightly irritated glare before he finally opens his mouth to speak. "Never in my life have I heard someone be so wrong about anything before."

"What am I wrong about? Trusting you?" Dick opens his arms wide. "Because that seems like it might be a big one. Is it because I skipped over one of your greatest kills? I didn't go through the entire file that was sent to me before I woke you up because I was a little impatient. You know, being targeted by a super-secret terrorist organization tends to do that to a person."

"We are not a terrorist organization and we do not work because some nation pays us more money to protect their people than others. We are an independent espionage network that does its job protecting the safety of the world's people not one government. You can see where the Western world might label us as terrorists when we make moves against them." Tiger leans back against the couch.

"Who are you? Were you planning to use me? Kill me? You’ve been tracking me down every step of this investigation. You have to admit it's starting to look pretty suspicious." Starting to feel a little stupid for not noticing it before.

"Our...run-ins have been very coincidental but I had and have no plans regarding you. Neither do my superiors." Tiger holds his gaze. "I have never been dishonest with you. I have held back information from you, it's my job, but everything I have ever told you has always been the truth."

"Then why the stalking?"

Now Tiger looks tired. "Again, both of us are interested in taking down Roman and his trafficking ring. You want him and his gang in prison. We want his gang dead. It's that simple."

Now it's Dick's turn to frown. "Well see right there, that's kind of a conflict of interest."

"I suppose it is, believe me I didn't actually plan to see you again. I left you in Russia and was fully planning to take care of Roman before you and the Russians had even figured out where he'd disappeared. Unfortunately, one of the guards on the grounds has a mole in the Russian government and found out you survived. He outed me to Roman and they believed I was a SVR agent. "

Alright, yeah, Dick can see that. Drop Dick off where the Russians can easily find him before running off to go and kill some human trafficker before breakfast. The break in at Roman's former estate in Tula wasn't exactly a secret affair either. There were a number of agencies included in the break in. Not that much a weird coincidence that Roman had eyes where the Russians had forgotten to look.

"They were planning to kill me. That or continue their torture, I'm not sure before you found me."

"It looks like they already got to both options first." Although, considering Tiger's irritating habit to be anything less than helpful—stubborn most definitely the entire time Dick's known him—Roman would be the type of man to torture Jesus when he returned from the dead. If only to continue wetting his appetite for split blood.

"Normally a mission begins and concludes without an issue. This one, however, has been overly troublesome and I can't shake the feeling it was something to do with you and your proclivity of getting into trouble."

"I'm kind of a magnet for it I admit," Dick shrugs. Tiger, on his way to win the Academy Award for Most Exasperated Man of All Time, rolls his eyes.

"As it stands both of us are no closer to finding Roman and, after what happened in Sochi, he'll most likely be going under ground." Oddly enough, the idea that Roman Sionis, literal walking super villain, is going into hiding again doesn't seem to be the thought weighing on Tiger the most. There is a noticeable twitch in his jaw and he stares off at some distant corner of the room, quietly furious. It's so potent that Dick even starts to feel slightly vexed at whatever imaginary thing that's decided to draw Tiger's rage.

"Not that it matters anymore. I'll be replaced with someone else soon enough and you'll be transferred."

"I don't think-"

"You'll be transferred," Tiger repeats with a raised brow. "The Russian Federation will be left to deal with Roman, you'll be sent away to China or Kenya, wherever the Justice League deems you. That is how government agencies work."

Now it's Dick's turn to be inappropriately livid. Only difference is Dick doesn't turn his attention to some cobweb on the corner of the roof. He just glares directly at Tiger's too handsome face. "And Spyral doesn't?"

"You have a problem with listening, don't you?"

"I tend not to when someone talks to me in cryptic metaphors," Dick sits down on the table in besides the couch. Tiger watches him, eyes drooping and anger leaving his body almost as quickly as it came. Eyebrows scrunching up, Tiger closes his eyes and sighs.

"Spyral is an independent organization. We don't belong to any country, which means we're not bound by a single of system of government. We do this so we can work without the national identity that makes us protective of our own people."

"That's very pessimistic," Dick says.

"We operate on the idea that humans cannot be trusted." Tiger studies him. Hard to tell what he expects to find as he drags his burning gaze over the length of Dick's face. Whatever it is, it must not be good—or satisfying, which is equally bad—because he closes in on himself a moment later.

"Where there is a good man there could also be a bad one. It is human nature to be kind and generous just as it is human nature to be greedy and ill-willed. I'm sorry if this isn't what you expected from me but it is how I've always operated. I do what I must to safeguard the world's populace, not just a country."

Now it's Dick's turn to be offended. The idea sounds like it came straight out of the mouth of some perpetually dickish philosophy teacher in a community college GED course. "That's a funny way of saying I kill people for the greater good who may not even need to die."

"Then you are a blind idiot who weighs his own moral conscience over the lives of innocent men and women."

It's almost imperceptible at first, the little sour taste on the tip of his tongue. Out of sorts a little surprised by Tiger's sudden accusation he can only stare at the man with a little tilt of his head, the same way a confused puppy does. Then the taste on his tongue grows, sharp, overpoweringly so like sucking on a penny. For a moment all Dick can see in front of him is an imaginary, perfect, little circle that oozes black-red blood above Tiger's heart.

Clenching his teeth hard enough his ears start to ache from the tension, Dick grits out. "My unwillingness to kill does not mean I wouldn't stain my reputation if it meant saving even one person's life."

Tiger's holds his gaze for a moment, the fire-bright amber visibly softening every passing moment. Watching Dick carefully he ducks his head. "Then this is where we are different. You should be glad you are not like me."

"Don't worry, I am."

Tense barely does the overbearing atmosphere justice. That whole saying, you could cut through the tension in the room with a knife, Dick always thought it was a little cliché. Kind of old too, same way Bruce calling him chum felt. An oppressive air hangs heavy in the room, like holding your face to hard against a pillow. Tiger's posture is stiff against the couch, looking at him with a kind of quiet awe.

Dick doesn't like it. Gives him the same sort of vibes Anthony Hopkins did in Silence of the Lambs. That quiet sort of starving hunger that left him questioning whether or not Hannibal wanted to possess Clarice or kill her. Problem here is the Hannibal Lecter is a fictional character behind a pane of bullet-proof glass. Tiger is a real person barely a foot away.

Then Tiger relaxes, limp and pale-faced against the couch. The cost of such a damaging wound, Dick supposes. Good thing for him in this situation. Less time being thought of in that sort of "50 Ways to Kill" kind of thought process. While he is slightly sympathetic to Tiger’s situation—he was there not long ago himself—the disadvantage Tiger has by being on the brink of death only helps Dick’s current survival of non-maiming.

"Is there any other reason you woke me up besides accusing me of things I have no control over?" Tiger yawns.

No use beating around the bush anymore. Dick left his capability for subtlety somewhere in Sochi after he, quite literally, crashed Knyazev. "What did you find out before Roman left you for dead? We're running a tight ship as you're aware."

Tiger’s expression shifts, pale gaunt face coloring a light bit red while his brows knit together.

“He’s leaving Russia for a few months until the excitement dies down. Your escape and my exposure made him worry."

"Interesting, I would have thought he'd grown used to my recurring presence." Dick taps his chin. “Considering Armstrong was, at least most likely, visiting Cairo to meet with Vandal on his behalf. I don’t think the _Orpheus_ is a rentable ship.”

“It’s a side business, weapons trading.” Tiger adjusts on the couch. Dick is there in an instant, helping him ease back onto the pillows, no longer squeezing the muscles in his abdomen. The gauze is beginning to peel away on the edges of his stomach. He’ll have to change them. “Vandal Savage was a...buyer. He’s also a zealot and a revolutionist who attracts many similarly aligned men. Roman thought it would be beneficial to dip his feet into the market by acting as a broker between Armstrong and Savage.”

It’s kind of, well there’s no other way to put it, lame, that the mystery involvement of the _Orpheus_ involvement, the case that started it all is only a small footnote in a much larger human trafficking case. It does explain Tiger’s first appearance in Cairo, with a case that Dick had originally assumed had no sort of involvement. All in all, Dick’s used to getting disappointed nowadays. Case in point, attractive stranger who bathes him and feeds him potato soup is also a gigantic asshole.

“What else,” Tiger’s starting to blink a lot slower, eyes staying shut for a moment or two before he opens them again. “What else do you know?”

"He is meeting with a frequent American buyer of his in Istanbul. His friend is a competitor in the local games there. I had been planning on attending to get closer to the friend to find out how far the ring stretches into America. That was before this happened obviously."

Dick thinks about the quickest way to get them to Istanbul without aggravating Tiger's current wounds. They'd need at least a few weeks to heal up before he was any use to either of them. "When are the games?"

"In a few weeks or so. I was hoping to find out more but I don't see how that's possible now."

"That doesn't give us a lot of time, but beggars can't be choosers, can they? Better to stay here together and go over what we know. We'll let the Russian government clean up what they can before we try to cut off the head."

"Well then, if that's all sorted out," Tiger’s eyes finally shut. "I need to go to sleep."

"Well," Dick watches the lines of Tiger's back relax into sleep. "Alright then."

* * *

Tiger is out of bed the following day. It scares the shit out of Dick who wakes up in the middle of the night, moonlight barely filtering through the curtains to someone rooting around the weapons storage closet on the second floor.

"Shit," Dick lowers the gun he had brought with him. Doubts he'd manage to use it in any case. "What are you doing?"

Tiger doesn’t look up. Around him are neatly organized piles of the various ammunition and guns. All of it is methodically clean and precise like the inside the mind of an obsessively, meticulous cleaner. "Counting. You hardly have enough ammunition in here to take care of all of Roman's armed guards. I kind of wonder how you planned to kill him anyway."

Dick tucks the gun away. Its safety had never been taken off. "As I said, I’m planning on taking him in. Kill would kinda ruin that."

Tiger watches him. Eyes are a little more focused that the night before. There’s still this glaze to thumb, only just, that keeps him completely awake—and possibly sane considering it’s five in the morning and Tiger’s counting bullets. "Besides these aren't guns I prepared. They come with the safe house. They’re only for a defense and a speedy get away."

"Right," Tiger sets aside the ammunition currently in his hands. "We'll need better weapons when we finally go after Roman and his men. They have enough guns to arm a small military. We'd be dead in the water before they even made it to their second gun."

"I though the AK-47 was pretty decent gun," Dick looks at the rifle in Tiger's lap. "Isn't it?"

"There's this thing called evolution and progression, there are better weapons out there than museum display guns.” A little flash of white, Tiger worries his lower lip with his teeth. “I'll have one of my agents drop off a new shipment for us."

“Ha ha,” Dick offers him a hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I won’t be using guns, remember? That and I don't think Spyral agents should be caught messing around a government safe house."

Tiger looks at him carefully. "If this is a joke then you should get better material, if it isn’t, I’m worried for the rest of the Justice League agents and if they’ve gone through just as poor training. They’ve been here already."

"What?" Dick tries to think back of all the traps and cameras he set up and where a Spyral agent could have slipped through. Nothing went off during the night to wake him so maybe Tiger’s pulling his leg. Does he even have a sense of humor? "You're joking."

"They have technology that gives you temporary amnesia and facial non-recognition. You opened the door for them and put a gun in their face before they disarmed you. Didn't you wonder how you got into bed last night?”

That. That can’t be true.

Instantly, Dick tries to remember the night before. He made dinner, talked with Tiger, went to check the traps and then. Shit. Everything beyond that point is a hazy, dark blank. Slipping through his fingers like sand. His jaw makes a point to take that moment to throb painfully.

"That is so not okay," Dick frowns. “We have to go over boundaries.”

"They wanted to check in.” Tiger takes Dick’s hand. Steadily, Dick helps him to his feet. It’s obvious, from the way Tiger squeezes his hand that the strength he had been lacking before is not only returning but is exceptionally steadier than the night before. “I had been offline for more than a few hours and hadn't activated the cyanide capsule in my mouth. They were making sure it hadn't been lost and were either going to extract me or kill me. When they realized I was with a friend they left to fetch supplies."

“Boundaries.”

Tiger purses his lips, grip loosening slightly like Dick’s very presence is just sucking the life straight out of him. “They won’t do it again.”

There, was that so hard Tiger? Honestly, it’s like pulling teeth. The only thing that made up for that terrible attitude and abysmal humor was his handsome face. Frowning, Dick sighs and shakes his head. That and sure his piss-poor attitude was, admittedly fun. Still that leaves one last thing that’s bothering him.

"If Spyral agents have technology that makes someone forget their faces, then why did I remember yours?" Considering the reappearance of Tiger’s face, the distinctiveness of it, there should be no reason for Dick to even remember seeing Tiger so often at all.

Tiger looks at him carefully. "I like to do things the old-fashioned way."

Dick thinks about the teacher disguise in Cairo and the lost tourist in Ostia. "This sounds like one coincidental bullshit reason why. Maybe you just like me."

Tiger glowers. "I wouldn't go that far, Dick."

Dick gives him a saucy little wink just to rub it in more. Then he surveys the weapons. "When will they be delivered?"

"Soon, at least before we leave. I want to make sure they work." Tiger adjusts his feet and then immediately winces, stepping back against the frame of the door with a pained wheeze. Dick follows him, arms resting out to catch him if need be.

Dick tilts his head. "Are you sure you should be standing up and moving around right now? This seems like it will do a lot more to hinder than help."

Tiger sniffs. "I should be fine in a few days. I'll have one of the agents supply us with a medical kit. It will do well enough to help me heal faster."

"Now this is some James Bond shit," Dick whistles. "You're like a super spy."

"I prefer the term emissary,” he says a little snappish. Realizes he must sound like a total asshole, which is ironic considering the amount of asshattery Dick’s had to put up with, and amends. “But thank you for the compliment I suppose."

Dick ruffles his hair and brightens at the bitter disdain on Tiger's face. "You're welcome, sour puss."

He takes Tiger back downstairs, having to carry him halfway down the steps when the strength that even got him up the stairs in the first place leaves him. Tiger is heavy, but still strangely light for a man that looks the way he does in Dick’s arms. It worries him, that maybe the blood transfusions aren’t working or there is an internal wound that neither of them knows about draining the rest of his blood.

Sets up another bag when Dick reattaches him to the numerous IVs when they get back to the living room. By that time Tiger is nearly asleep in his arms. The tense lines of his forehead are gone, Dick sits there, brushing the hair out of his face with a light hand. It never occurred to Dick before, but seeing him lie there, without the scowl or weary lines creasing his forehead Tiger doesn’t look much older than him. Reminds him of the foiled arrest in the countryside some months ago. Tiger with no beard, loose smile, and a younger man’s clothes was painfully young.

How old had he been when he started going on missions to become an intelligence agent? Everything he does is exact and familiar. He carries himself with a confidence that would only come from years of experience and there is no way he started working as young as Dick did. There’s a chance that maybe Spyral operates on a completely different rule-set, that Tiger might have started training at the age of sixteen. Maybe he had started even younger, but that train of thought is stereotypically offensive it’s Hollywood-esque in the insanity of it.

Perhaps he’s over thinking it. Tiger could just have a natural talent when it comes to engaging in the area of subterfuge, like children who are born with a natural disposition for sports or mathematics or juggling live chainsaws.

A soft murmur makes Dick pulls his hand away. Right, it’s still way too earlier to be thinking too hard—especially now with that headache he’s beginning to have. He’ll need to give that Spyral agent a talking to when they come back. He sighs and stands up. One last glance over Tiger to make sure he’s settled in for the night and heads back upstairs.

Despite the bed’s softness and his own exhaustion, a thought weighs heavy in the front of his mind and keeps him up until dawn breaks.

* * *

The agent Tiger knows is a black-haired woman named Selina. She's beautiful in every definition of the word. Bubbly, bright smile, blue eyes, and has a body any stereotypical straight man would have staring in late night dreams. She's also the one who knocked Dick out in the morning and made him forget his own name.

"I liked you better when you were drooling into the carpet," she admits, running a finger along the line of his jaw. Takes a moment to smirk at the now fresh bruise on his jaw, poking it with a manicured nail. "But you're really cute like this too."

"I like being really cute," Dick imagines if it weren't Tiger, but Selina he'd chased halfway around the world they might have slept together by now. At least hopes so. In that whole, you and I are cut from the same cloth, kind of way—or a “would you make out with your clone.”

"Agent 8," Tiger says with an almost noticeable amount of regret in his voice, obvious in the way he looks at the both of them. "If you would please."

It takes a bit of time to get them all in the living room. With her Selina has brought a large, steel case. It’s uncomfortably big and awkward to fit through the door, let alone with makeshift hospital Dick’s set up in the center of the living room. There’s the incessant chatter in the corner from Tiger, critiquing everything they do. Honestly, you’d think a guy recovering from a near fatal wound would be a bit more subdued. Apparently, not only does Tiger’s annoyance exceed the average human’s, he’s way chattier as a patient than doctor.

"How'd you get stuck working with a bore like Tiger, pet?" Dick eventually asks. Selina smiles, setting the case down in the center they’d cleared away, strands of hair brushing across her face.

"Well you know, getting cozy with the one at the top of the Spyral agency ladder has its perks."

"Selina," Tiger warns.

"Agent 1,” Dick repeats. Again, he feels likes this needs reiterating at this point but he is not a stupid man. Common sense, okay that can escape him sometimes, but Dick did well above average in his classes at the academy. He is not an idiot. “Spyral’s top agent, agent one? You didn't tell me you were _the agent."_

"This is why," Tiger glares at him from the couch and sits up. "What did you bring Selina?"

"What you requested, you're welcome.” She bows. “Matron didn't approve, but you know how she feels about getting in too deep with anyone not on the "Helena-Approved" list. The only reason she hasn’t replaced you was because Roman and his men didn’t get a look at your actual face."

Tiger nods. "Expected."

"I'm a little offended that you'd choose to work with an League agent over me," she pouts then gives a leer at Dick's shape, particularly on the curve of his ass. "Though I can see why you'd choose otherwise."

"Thank you, Selina," Tiger says louder. "You may go, I'll contact you when we're preparing to depart and how."

Rolling her eyes, Selina steps beside Tiger. She is comically small next to him. Slight and near-dainty had it not been for the obvious curve of her muscles, highlighted by the shadowed curve of them in her arms, Dick would worry about him breaking her with one wrong look. One hand resting on his shoulder, she leans down. Presses a light kiss to his temple and looks at him, soft.

"Don’t get yourself killed, Tiger."

"What in the world did she pack for you?" Dick eyes it with awe and some fear. "It looks like you could hide a whole nuke in there."

"Thank you for the input Dick," Tiger rolls his eyes. "It's my equipment."

Tiger's equipment ends up being some of the craziest, futuristic looking shit Dick’s ever seen. The guns he recognizes, all modified variations of a Magnum gun. There are multiple cases of ammunition for them that range from hollow point to incendiary—Dick didn't even know they made that outside of video games—along with fake passports and money for all the surrounding countries. There is also, of course, a scrap of fabric inside as well. Tan, soft to the touch, and quite out of place nestled amongst the guns and ammunition.   
  
It's what Tiger takes out first, careful with it in his hands, just holding it close. Then, to Dick's growing confusion, wraps it around his head.  
  
"It's impolite to stare," Tiger says. He moves slow, deliberate, mostly from pain, but his body posture relaxes, going limp against the couch the longer he holds the cloth. The more it covers his head. As an intelligence agent Dick knows instantly what this is. In a job where you play dozens of roles, none of them yourself, it is easy to lose what is inherently your own. Things that are markers of  _your_ unique person that provide a comfort that nothing else can seem to manage. For Dick it is his personality. Being extroverted provide him with a comfort the loneliness in his career deprives him of.   
  
For Tiger it is obviously his faith.   
  
"You're Muslim." Dick says. He flushes after the words leave his mouth, ducking his head and rubbing his neck. "Not-not that I, I just, you didn't-"  
  
Tiger doesn't look at him. "I don't need you stuttering out an apology for an observation. Unless it is because you find it disagreeable, then I'll accept it only with your absolute silence."  
  
"I don't," doesn't know how he'd be able to stand himself if that were true. "I just didn't know you were. Considering I've been with you for long periods of time and never seen you engage in Salah."  
  
"You were also blind for a majority of that time," Tiger glances at him, the scarf,  _shemagh_ if Dick's correct, cradling his stupidly symmetrical face. There is an absence of ire or disappointment, but, to Dick's growing embarrassment, a little smirk. "You also sleep very heavily."  
  
Dick flushes and ducks his head. 

"I assume you have your own methods to procure a fake travel visa," Tiger says laying everything out on the table in front of him in perfect rows. He does but he didn’t want to call in yet another favor. He was barely in Leonid’s good graces already, who knows what would happen if Dick started asking for that kind of help. Didn’t need Leonid finally having enough and tattling on him. Didn't want to be transferred off the case he had nearly died for almost a month ago.

"I do," Dick stares at one of the vials of clear liquid secured to the top of the case. "What's that?"

"Steroids and adrenaline," Dick must give him a look because Tiger sighs. "I know how to properly administer it so you don't have to worry about whether I'll die."

"Is this going to help?"

"Yes, it will give me the strength to set up our mission.” Tiger closes the case and watches Dick carefully when he does. “Do you have a problem with drugs?"

"No.”

Tiger is quiet before he responds. "Good."

* * *

Tiger is a pretty good patient. Though Dick is probably in the running for one of the worst nurses he is patient through the pain. Despite the medication and injections he still requires help doing the most mundane things, such as standing and washing himself below the waist. Dick takes a lot of joy in that, considering Tiger's own obsession with keeping him clean in Russia. Tiger limits the amount of work he does in a day, resting whenever he needs it and propping up the house's laptop on his chest.

He bypasses the security lock on the computer and starts searching the databases for Roman while Dick hikes around the house to make sure no one's about to break in. It’s kind of irritating, being forced to share a space with an agent as capable and intelligent as Tiger. There is no way to keep anything a secret from him within close quarters. When he receives an email from an email from Leonid informing him about Bruce’s multiple inquiries, he finds out by Tiger lecturing him.

“Honestly,” Tiger starts when Dick gets back around three am when a deer triggered security. “You didn’t tell me you had a permanent handler assigned to your case at all times. If I had known you were a novice agent I would have never agreed to this.”

Dick doesn’t respond though he wants to. Especially with how the comment burns in the back of his throat in ways Tiger does not fully understand. Ways he hasn’t thought about since his own “demotion” a two and a half years ago. His nose twitches from the phantom sent of cordite and fails to sleep fully, not with the hallucination of distant, single shots of gunfire.

Luckily, Tiger doesn’t break into his laptop again and if he does he keeps what he finds a secret. After seeing Dick walk out of his room the following morning, bags underneath his bloodstained eyes Tiger does not make any jabs at his agent status again.

It’s kind of peaceful actually. Quaint and sort of like living with a very demanding house cat. If said house cat was also a very attractive man with a penchant for groaning anytime Dick makes a terrible pun about something. It’s kind of irritating actually, how unfortunately attractive Tiger is even in the midst of recovering from a life threatening injury. Often times they end up on the couch together, television droning in the background while Dick cards his hands through Tiger’s hair. Not through any kind of pre-planning, Dick just misses physical touch and Tiger’s right there.

Tiger must desire it himself too, on some basic level, because he doesn’t shove Dick off during those soft hours in the evening.

One of the nights they are sitting watching some Russian subtitled American Disney movie, Cinderella, when Tiger snorts.

Dick, whose childhood was built watching Disney movies with his parents, frowns."What?"

"It's nothing," he says and watches the movie. They sit quietly for another half hour, watching Russian commercials about breakfast cereal and tourist locations near the Ukrainian border. Then Tiger says, "Juleidah, the princess in the leather skins. An old, children's story from Egypt. It's like Cinderella, but better."

Dick leans his head back on the couch and looks at Tiger's half-lidded, tired eyes. "Are you shitting on Disney movies now?"

Tiger scowls. "Disney has a history taking the original creations from others, their animators and artists are a prime example. Juleidah would have been a much more entertaining story." Tiger takes a sip of his water. " _My name is Julediah for my coat of skins, my eyes are weak, my sight is dim, my ears are deaf, I cannot hear, I care for no one far or near._ In the story her mother, the queen, passed away and the king hired a matchmaker to find him a new wife. She declared that whoever's ankle could wear one of the queen's old anklets would marry the king. Julediah was the only one it would fit and her father planned to marry her. She ran away that night and paid a leather tanner to fashion her a burka for morning. It was hideous."

Dick smiles, watching the way Tiger's brows pinch together as he describes Julediah. He continues with the story, about how she worked in a neighboring kingdom's kitchens and attended the balls at night. Everyone wanted to know her, but she spoke to no one. Except for one night when she danced with the prince. "And this is better than Cinderella?"

Tiger snaps back immediately. "Yes, because it ends with her throwing the woman who ruined her life off a cliff. Though I think she should have killed her incestuous father too."

"I think that might be a little too mature for children."

"Hm," Tiger says and closes his eyes. "Maybe so."

They watch Cinderella quietly. Dick abandons the movie near the end, as Cinderella desperately runs from the party, her little glass slipper falling off during her flight. Instead, his gaze settles on Tiger. Amber eyes half-lidded, fighting to stay awake, his face is, ironically, the most relaxed Dick’s ever seen it awake. His stubble has grown out, bushy in areas he can’t reach. Those three mysteries scars on his forehead have little rigid shadows, and they bother Dick in ways that make his heart ache.

"I think you're like Julediah,” Dick says when the credits start to roll. “All I need is an anklet to have you try on."

Tiger makes a face. "I'm not like her. She is much stronger than I am I think. To renounce her family and adopt a persona where no one would look upon her. They called her a beggar and a hag."

"Isn't that what you do though?" Dick looks at Tiger. "Going around and pretending to be something you aren't?"

Tiger turns to him then. Mouth pursed in a thin line as his eyes steady Dick’s face, fully awake. When he speaks his voice is low, scolding him. "I don't turn into a beautiful woman when you aren't looking, Dick. You will not get that from me. I am not Selina. I am not what you want."

Dick thinks about that. Thinks about the disguises that Tiger went through and how even though it might have started as a lust-fueled interest what Dick feels now, this thing eating away at the center of his stomach threatening to consume him in a nerve-tingling fire, is not lust. He doesn’t dare put a name to the feeling. Only knows that it is dangerous to possess.

Swallowing, he meets Tiger’s eyes. "Maybe I don't want a pretty woman, maybe I want the homeless looking man who've I chased and stalked halfway around the world.

Tiger glares at him, raises his foot and kicks it out at Dick's face. Dick grabs it, wraps a few fingers around the curve of Tiger's ankle to where they connect on either side. "It fits."

"Dick," Tiger warns but his voice sounds light and fragile. Dick leans forward and presses a soft kiss to the inside of his ankle then looks up at Tiger, amber eyes dark and unreadable.

He wets his lips and lets his foot drop back down.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Dick doesn't know when he stopped looking at Tiger in a "I want to fuck you on the nearest countertop way" and started looking at him like "I want to hold your hand and unravel the very being of what you are so I know whether you make the same face at black coffee as you do when some dumb politician makes a racist comment on television." When he stopped caring about how Tiger looked sweaty and flushed in bed and how he looked with mid-morning hair sticking up in every direction. If he liked to nap in his free time like Dick did or if he liked to toasted sandwiches that were burnt. Perhaps he was one of those snobbish food types that only liked things a specific way.

On the second day of honeypot training Dick had been warned not to fall for a mark. He'd failed in every sense of the word. Failed so definitely that he couldn't imagine how he'd be able to move on after this job was over and Tiger disappeared. Back to the ghost he was always meant to be. Unaligned with no obligation to anyone, where there was nothing except duty. Dick always thought he was one of those types too. He hates being proven so wrong.

Out of all the people in the world, he never thought he would be the kind of guy who would give a thought at settling down. That was for men and women like Tim and Stephanie—maybe Leonid too when he found a woman, or man, equally to himself in strength and stubbornness. Not him though.

Tiger is a quiet and dedicated patient, Dick’s said as much. He’s also terrible impatient with his own progress. Overexerts himself some days to the point where Dick watches with concern as he huffs, turns red, and nearly passes out from lack of breath when he works to hard. There is only so much Dick can do to stop Tiger from exhausting himself from sheer foolhardy stubbornness. Often too busy patrolling the perimeter, keeping an eye on Roman's men from news headlines and tracking their movements across country borders to tell Tiger to lay down for shit’s sake. He does, however, make an allowance for Tiger's engagement in Salah--five times a day, Dick doesn't know how practicing Muslims do it, he's had to set alarms so he can help Tiger stand--considering how much it helps Tiger's mood and overall comfort.  
  
Dick makes a call three days after Selina's appearance and asks Tim for priority mail for a standard alternative passport.

Tim is a little less than happy to agree. "Is there a reason you need to accompany him to Turkey? It sounds like he has everything under control, it's you that's making it overly complicated. You should have reported into the Russian Intelligence agency days go."

The forest around the cabin is quiet. Sunlight filters in through the gaps in the tree leaves, dappling the ground with little rays of gold. “And let Bruce stick me with another babysitter looking into puppy mills in South Carolina? No, thanks. This is the first time I’ve been able to do something helpful in years.”

A breath. “Your probationary status is only temporary, doing this will only elongate the time you’ve been sentenced to it, if not get your agent status revoked entirely. You’re playing a dangerous game, Dick, and this one isn’t with Sionis.”

Dick looks up at the sky. There’s a few passing clouds that slip in front of the sun every now and then, besides that it is an endless stretch of blue. When Dick lost his full agent status there wasn’t a storm, no dark clouds passing overhead when he stepped out of the warehouse, blood still on the palms of his hands and soles of his shoes. It was sunny, a little warm and absolutely beautiful. Growing up he had associated clouds and rain with an oncoming storm of negativity, certain the days where the worst would happen to him would occur then.

The day he lost his agency status it was clear, by all accounts, a “gorgeous Sunday afternoon.” Same could be said on the day he lost a man that he come to view as a little brother. “That was an entirely uncalled for jab…..and you know it.”

"I’m sorry,” Tim, unlike Tiger, at least does an impression of being genuinely so. “This is a bad idea and someone is going to get hurt," and if Dick's heart has anything to say on the matter it will most definitely be him. “The last time you got in too deep you broke League protocol apprehending a suspect. What’s happening now? You’ve already broken a number of minor rules, and with the lengths you’re going to protect a foreign agent, who is also, quite possibly, a wanted assassin? There is a probability this will take the same route as the Joker case.”

The word does less to him now. Before even the mention of the word J, which made work terribly hard, had Dick in little fits where he’d find himself curled up in the corner of the room, tongue nearly bitten in half from his shaking. At first the probationary status was to make sure Dick could even return to fieldwork. After that, Dick knows Bruce wants him watched because of what had happened during that ill-fated mission and Dick’s terrible choice.

“I thought you were supposed to be my friend.” He means it to lighten the mood, but his throat tightens halfway through the sentence.

"Yeah, well, good friends tell other friends when they’re being dumb too. What are you going to do if this doesn't go the way you expect it?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure someone is already trying to get me fired for something or other,” Dick stands up. Needs to get back to the house soon, before he starts picking fights over the line with the one person on his side. “Might as well do what I can before I can before you report me and I get my agent status entirely revoked and sent to therapy. You know, for the torture I went through."

"Dick," Tim starts.

"It’s okay, you made your point. If you'll excuse me I need to get back to my bad idea to make sure he doesn't run off and do something incredibly stupid and get us both in trouble. Or, more accurately, I get in trouble and he comes and bails me out of it. Our relationship tends to work out that way."

"Be smart Dick"

"Yeah," Dick sighs. "I'll do my best."

Dick hangs up. It'll take at least a few days for them to deliver the passport. Which means they have sometime to plan their next steps before Tim starts to get pushy about Dick turning himself in. And while Tiger is at the mercy of his healing schedule Dick might as well take advantage of what he can before Tiger can get up and slip out of his grasp.

"We need to talk," Dick broaches the subject that night.

Tiger is in the middle of picking at his chicken dinner, slicing the bits of food careful with his fork. He looks up at Dick and slides a bit of food into his mouth. "What do we need to talk about?"

"A lot of things but specifically how are we going to infiltrate Roman's circle without either of them recognizing you?"

"We'll need a subtle disguise, one that can withstand heat and sweat. They will need to be able to withstand a lot of stress."

"How intricate a disguise are we talking here?"

"Something simple, that's often the best course of action considering wigs tend to fall off when pulled and contacts are dangerous if presented with extreme heat. I'd suggest growing out your beard maybe lengthen your hair while I, on the other hand, do the opposite."

Dick remembers Russia, jailbait Tiger stepping out of the car. "You look like a toddler with a clean-shaven face."

Tiger rolls his eyes. "And you are hardly a comedian. It is the only way we’ll be able to get close to them, especially you considering they know your true face."

It's simple, kind of what Dick had expected honestly entering this conversation but he doesn't know what else he can do.

"Alright, so what else do we do in regards to getting close to Roman? I assume pretending that we know them or want to work for them won't work out as well as say, doing that a few months ago before Roman knew he was being infiltrated by at least two organizations."

"The sports competition is how we'll do it. Every year Roman's personal bodyguard attends a competition in Turkey. We enter the competition and move up the ranks to get in close contact and slip a tracking device on him. Aside from that Roman and his guard, Lawrence Crock, will be monitored exceptionally well. It is the only justifiable way to bet able to touch him without causing unnecessary suspicion."

Dick thinks about it. "What kind of competition is this?"

“Yağlı güreş,” Tiger takes another bite of food. “Oil wrestling.”

Never heard of it. If Tiger possessed even the slightest inkling of a sense of humor Dick would laugh, assuming he was just pulling his leg. But Tiger continues to eat small bites of food which leaves Dick thinking erroneous thoughts about what exactly “oil wrestling” might entail. Like wrestling in puddles of oil. He tells Tiger so.

“That is almost exactly what it is.” And he says it so mildly, Dick has to pinch himself to make sure this isn’t a dream where Tiger’s developed a sense of humor. It isn’t.

"I assume I'll go undercover as the competition."

Tiger snorts. "You will absolutely not. I will."

He laughs, a little bark as Tiger refuses to glance up from his plate. Oh, oh he’s actually serious. "Yeah, right. I'm not the one who had my stomach hanging out a few days ago from stab wound."

"If it were that bad I'd be dead, besides unless you can tell me what the name of what the men wear I will be the one entering the competition."

"You'll be flat on your back and out of the ring before you can even figure out what way's up."

"I'm the only one with the experience and knowledge of the rules to be able to successfully progress far enough in the competition to get close enough to him.” Tiger sets down his fork and looks at Dick. “This one of the few chances we have to get close to Sionis before he disappears. We can’t take any risks.”

Tiger, of course, has only spent a small amount of time around him. He has no idea the feats Dick is capable of. Most important, and taught by Clark himself, was the the iconic kicked-puppy face. Now, normally, he pray to never have to use it on anyone. But Tiger’s not just anyone.

Settling onto his knees, he looks up at Tiger, taking hold of his arm in a gentle, yet firm, grasp. "Then teach me."

Tiger glances down at him and it's like Dick can see the wheels turning in Tiger's head, weighing the annoyance of teaching Dick over not and having to put up with him in a small cabin in the middle of nowhere for the next few days. Tiger sighs and rubs his temples. "This is a terrible idea. You'll need a very good disguise then as to why a white man is entering a very culturally ingrained competition."

"I'm actually Romani."

Tiger narrows his eyes and looks at him, pursing his lips and nodding his head. "I apologize."

"I know I’m asking a lot with this, but you have to trust that I can do it. Which I can, absolutely do it." Dick wets his lips. "Will you do that, Tig?"

A long pause then a great, heaving sigh leaves him. "Fine. I’ll have to put you through training to make sure you can even do it first. It’s a lot different than your League training."

No one’s been harder on him physically than Bruce. Dick could laugh at the threat. "How hard can it be?"

* * *

Hard turns out to be excruciatingly difficult all the while having a man ready to yell at the top of his lungs just how much of a dumbass he is.

Tiger's "training" for wrestling Dick's positive isn't actually for wrestling, or at least what he grew up with in high school. At least he didn't remember the wrestlers in his old school looking particularly worn out after participating in their chosen sport after a long day of, well, getting the shit kicked out of them. Especially if it is anything like what he's struggling through now.

That’s also to say that Dick’s “training” doesn’t end after the physical aspect of it all.

Tiger takes over meal prep. Both for himself, to make sure he's ingesting enough iron, and for Dick's "bulking." Which Dick always thought the purpose of weight training was to cut your weight to avoid being put in the tougher rings with bigger competitors.

"That's before the weigh in, you want to build as much muscle as you can before the competition, lose it hours before the weigh in and then put it back on. However, yağlı güreş does not operate on such firm rules. They will take the closest weight that you say you are and match you with appropriate pehlivan. Our competition is a little on the heavier side, so we'll get as close as we can weight wise to be put in his category.."

"So you're trying to fatten me up is what you're saying," Dick wheezes on the floor, having done several pull-ups, burpees, and Tiger's own sadistic, bastardized version of weight training that involved a lot of bending and way too much pain.

"You hardly needed my help for that," Tiger rolls his eyes.

Dick flushes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Most of the muscles you have were gained by barely enough exercise to maintain them. It is obvious you did them for vanity and not strength.” Standing above him, Tiger regards him the same way he did the spider he crushed earlier in the bath. Even raises his foot to prod at Dick’s shaking stomach. “Besides you eat too many carbs and not enough protein. If you were sedentary for more than a week you would have a belly."

"Well you certainly lack tact."

"Honesty is always the best policy, I'd rather be remembered for being honest than being a liar."

The hypocrisy makes Dick speak without thinking. Ego and body wounded he rolls onto his knees and looks up at Tiger. "And you’re a spy."

Tiger is quiet for a moment too long. "And I am a spy."

* * *

Nights come quickly. There are hardly enough hours in the day for Dick to move through the exercises to keep up to date with things Roman is doing. His Instagram, for example, says he's vacationing in London. Pictures of beautifully dressed men and women wearing the latest Sionis fashion line crowd the streets on the way to Eton and other sprawling universities. Dick would give anything to be the lucky mook who gets sento Paris the following week to play their boss on his behalf.

But then he'd have to deal with the whole "human trafficking" ring and surprise Dick's never been a fan of human slavery, sexual or not.

Tiger stays up late. Which, correct him if he's wrong, someone who's recovering should not do but Tiger apparently has a concoction of drugs that take care of simple human things. Such as recovery time and muscle building. His stitches are taken out in a matter of hours not days from the rapid healing.

"Damn, I've never seen a wound do that before. What kinds of drugs are in that?" Dick finally asks.

"The drugs encourage the nanomachines already in my body to help reconnect the healing tissue."

"I'm sorry, nanomachines? What the fuck?" And that was super cool because Dick worked for the League expecting James Bond style weapons—which is true that he got to interact with some amount of experimental technology—but nothing the level that Tiger regularly encountered.

"They are given to you upon entry into Spyral. It's to make sure that in case of a rogue or missing agent we can always find them. Or that our agents heal quickly on the job. You know the issue of having a bullet wound in the middle of the mountains. It's really, well, distracting." Tiger glances at him, a cool smile on his face. “Why do you think the League can never find us?”

Pouting, Dick turns away from Tiger. If only to save himself the excess of naughty dreams from that one damn smirk. "I can imagine that. But isn't that a little, aggressive in the terms of watching over you?"

"Since Spyral is an independent organization our leaders must work very hard to keep our agents on a firm and tight leash. If we so chose, we could lead a country to destruction or revolution that could cost the world thousands of lives just to further our own believes. The reason Spyral hasn't been hunted down by the UN or made clear to the public is because how strict we are.”

"So you're a bunch of sticks in the mud?" Dick grins when Tiger frowns.

"That's own way of saying it I suppose." Tiger stirs their dinner a little more in the pan. The scent of chicken hanging over the kitchen is mouthwatering. Dick feels his stomach getting ready to growl, or worse, full up bust out of his chest _Alien_ style just to get a taste of the dinner. "I prefer the word dedicated."

"I was joking, Tony," Dick says and rolls over onto his side, peering up at Tiger with a soft smile. "I know you're not a stick in the mud, or else how would I be able to convince you to make me go through this hell torture just so I can show off my sculpted body to you? The one you are going to help make?"

Tiger flushes and smacks him with the handle of the wooden, stirring spoon. "Don't say things like that."

Dick falls silent, if not a bit reluctantly, and watches the concentration on Tiger's face as he tries to perfectly stir the chicken in the pan. The down turn of his brows and the pinched together skin on his forehead. The way his tongue ducks out to wet just the tip of his lip. Dick curses to himself.

Tim was right. This is starting to get very dangerous.

* * *

Tiger introduces the oil on the third day and an inanimate object for him to wrestle. "Considering I'm not well enough yet and you should probably practice on something stationary."

"I am not going to even comment on how dirty I feel. It's like that time I accidentally bathed in a shitton of lube just to fuck a teacher for a better grade. He had a massive dick, you know the kind of ones that leave you unable to think after?"

Tiger looks vaguely pale. Dick laughs. "No you don't know?"

"I'm reconsidering my promise not to shoot you. Get on the grass."

They’ve fashioned a little circled on the small lawn in the back of the cabin. It's less lawn and more wild grass with moss that's rough and dry in some areas. Filled with hidden rocks and gnarled tree roots just waiting to trip him. Tiger assures him the fields they'll be wrestling on will be maintained and meant for this purpose but "it's better to prepare for the worst." Very pessimistic, Tiger. The inanimate object they have acting as the opposing wrestler is a bag they stuffed with clothes, wrapped in plastic and then pulled over a tight pair of jean pants.

There are also the gallons of oil.

"I'm going to need you to perform a few moves on your opponent. Make sure to grab the kisbet when you try to do anything, that's the only way you'll be able to get a firm grip."

"What if I get a handful of plastic bag instead, will that work well enough?"

"Unless you think you can manipulate another man's arm as well as the plastic you use only the kisbet," Tiger clapped his hands. "Alright go.”

He has Dick run through a series of drills. The first includes dodging and running around the circle to avoid getting pinned. He falls on his ass despite the dirt beneath his feet almost a dozen times. It's a lot harder than it looks. Half of the time oil from the top of his head drips down the wrinkles of his face and right into the corners of his eyes, burning them whenever he gets a weak foot on the ground and goes sprawling.

Tiger of course, is right there to encourage him. "I have seen newborns wrestle with doctors still wet from their wombs better."

"That is one of the most disgusting phrases I've ever heard anyone say," Dick says as he eyes the ground with suspicion then taking another step in the opposite direction.

"Maybe if you weren’t doing so poorly you wouldn't have to hear them," Tiger smiles and it's such a beautiful flash of white teeth that Dick goes falling and can't even blame it on the ground. "You’re hopeless."

"That's what my instructors used to say, Dick you worthless piece of shit maybe you should join the army. They’re always in need of mindless drones to order around."

"Maybe you should have listened to them, and then we wouldn't have to worry about making you graceful on the field." Tiger only smiles wider and Dick has to look down to distract the rushing heat on his face.

"Just tell me how to correct my form asshole."

Tiger gets up from the deck with a roll of his eyes. Walking over to Dick’s side, he takes his oil-slick hand firmly and pulls Dick to his feet with ease. He’s not exactly light, has never been in his life, but Tiger treats him no heavier than an overstuffed pillow. Thanks is on the tip of Dick’s tongue, until Tiger slides up behind him, pressing his chest against Dick’s back.

 Dick flushes. "You're going to get slimy."

"That is hardly my biggest concern right now." Tiger rocks him forward until Dick is nearly off balance. "Easy, I won't let you fall. "

That is one of the last things Dick is worried about. His brain is mostly focused on how badly Tiger would react to the sudden bulge in a certain area. Likewise how close his strangling hands—that Dick's certain snapped many a neck—are to said area. Dick can only manage to stutter out a "right."

"You're balancing on the whole of your foot, which is great in any other scenario. Here you want to be agile without giving more slide to the oil. Grasp the grass with your toes, like claws and use it to dig yourself forward. When you go to lift your opponent, hold tight to the ground like they're anchors."

Dick spreads his toes wide and grips the ground, like the talons of a bird. Tiger chuckles breathily in his ear and it’s all Dick can do not to shiver as the warm puff of air blows across his cheek. "Now hold on."

"What?" Tiger shoves him forward and Dick yelps, tumbling to the ground. Turns out falling on his ass is a pretty good cure for a growing erection. "That hardly helped at all."

"I know," Tiger grins. "I just wanted to do that. Keep practicing I'm going to check the updates on Roman's card."

Tiger leaves Dick there on the grass flustered and panting. Dick lies on the ground, face towards the sky and thinks, _this man is going to be the death of me._

It's another two days before Dick can successfully lift the fake body up and over his head in a combination of moves without falling flat on his face and eating a mouthful of dirt. Tiger claps his hands from the porch and calls him up. Dick’s wasted a shitton of oil at this point so it makes him yelp when Tiger lifts his own bottle and power it all over himself.

"Now you fight against a real opponent," Tiger steps down off the porch slicking his arms up and his legs. He’s also wearing some tight pants—which is to say he's wearing sweats with the drawstring drawn in double loops around his waist—stretching his arms across his body. His shemagh sits, folded up, on the chair he'd been using to yell at Dick from the last few days. 

"Are you sure you should be out here like this?" Dick can't help but ask. Magical-wound-healing-nanomachines or not there's got to be something about fighting so soon after a traumatic wound. Like swimming after eating. "I'm not so sure it will be good for you know," Dick motions to his body. "Everything."

"Are you worried about losing?" Tiger asks and Dick's cheeks feel raw and hot.

" _No,_ " he says.

"Then this should be an easy win for you," Tiger smirks, amber eyes flicking down and up Dick's body in a far dirtier way than Dick would have thought possible. _Reconsidering that whole "stick in the mud" insult now._

"I'm more worried about you somehow opening your freshly healed scab more than anything," Dick mutters and walks around the edge of the circle, eyeing Tiger. Tiger, on the other hand, does nothing. Staying where he stepped inside the circle, he lifts his legs up to his chest then down again. "You know for whatever reason I really don't think you're thinking clearly about this. Could this just be some leftover pent-up aggression from the steroids?"

"If you're worried about losing to me then I should be the one signing up for the competition to get close to Roman's guard," Tiger says with a light smile. "Then we wouldn't have to do this."

 _I'm not afraid of losing,_ Dick wants to say, _I'm afraid you'll get on top of me and realize that I don't have three legs._ "If you're that alright with being beaten into the dirt then I have no choice but to give you what you want."

"Then come here," Tiger holds out a hand and beckons him closer.

Dick takes a breath, thinks about his grandmother wearing tight knickers that show off the crack of her diaper-clad ass, and then darts forward.

It's well, it's a lot harder than grabbing an immobile sack of clothes covered in plastic. His hands slip off Tiger's arms faster than an animated tomcat slipping on a discarded banana peel. Tiger laughs, this sexy throaty laugh—which should be an immediate disqualification—and grabs him around the pants instantly.

"The great flirt Dick Grayson, defeated by a cock," Tiger marvels and heaves him onto the ground. "If Roman knew this he might have gotten the information he wanted out of you faster."

"I'm not shy," Dick protests immediately, and does everything to keep himself off his back, wiggling with the ferocity of a beached eel out of Tiger's tight arms. "It's still a lot to ask for, grabbing onto a man's pants."

"Then this will be harder for you than I thought," Tiger smirks into the skin of Dick's neck and then shoves his hand down his kisbet. Dick can't hold back the strangled yelp.

"W-What are you doing?"

"Winning, did you think I only told you to do this to the fake body for fun?" Tiger pulls him closer, shoving his hand further down to get a better grip of the kisbet. "Submit."

And that voice and that word does things it shouldn't be able to do to Dick's already fraying self-control.

"Take me to dinner first?"

Tiger laughs, a genuine, happy laugh. That should not sound as hot as it does. "I don't think that's the proper way to say you yield."

Dick tries swallowing past the lump in his throat and the burn of embarrassment and arousal running hot beneath his skin. "O-Ok, ok, I yield."

Tiger releases him and Dick can only spare a second to furiously grab the excited bulge beneath his sweats and tell his cock to knock it off before he stands. Tiger holds out his hand. “Kiss me.”

 _Excuse me._ "What?"

"It is custom to show reverence to a superior opponent; they'll expect you to do it in Istanbul. Hopefully, by the time you get there you will be doing well enough that more men will be kissing your hand than you there's."

Dick's blush darkens. Oh no, not today Satan. He turns head away with a light breath. Tiger mistakes it instantly for embarrassment and shame. "Everyone must learn somehow, you did well. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

 _That's hardly my problem,_ Dick thinks and takes Tiger's hand. It feels as it always has, rough with callouses from holding the grip of a gun, firm and strong. Dick brushes a thumb across the ridge of knuckle and leans forward to press a soft kiss to Tiger's knuckles.

The dark-eyed half-lidded look Tiger fixes him with is enough to make him shiver.

"There," Dick says with a light smile and drops his hand. "Your kiss, my king."

Then he turns and heads inside up to the shower to furiously scrub himself clean and his cock raw.

* * *

Training is probably the worst sort of torture Dick has ever gone through—and he's been waterboarded for hours and had his fingernails ripped straight out of his skin. Tiger is a wall of muscle packed into a tough, but not overly muscular, body that moves around with the elegance and grace of, well, a tiger. Darting between Dick's legs and arms with nimble cleverness before taking him to the ground in a matter of seconds. Hand on his neck with a firm grip on his kisbet.

One part humiliating and nine parts so painfully erotic that Dick nearly passes out on several occasions from the amount of blood rushing away from his head and straight to his dick. God, for a moment Dick thought he had some sort of pure feelings for Tiger going with the most X-rated being holding hands in the morning while they waited for coffee to brew. His cock, not to be outdone by the fantasies of his heart, showers his brain with a menagerie of absolute filth. The most recurring theme is Tiger pinning him down in the grass and teaching him the proper way to mount your partner.

Mostly with his cock.

And that just makes the whole, fighting thing even worse, if Dick's going to be honest. Because wrestling with someone high off the remnants of a particularly salacious wet dream tells his mostly untouched cock of the last several months that it's time to go.

The only good thing about the wrestling and the oil are the constant showers, which is nice because it lets Dick turn the water to subarctic temperatures and make his cock hide at least for the next hour or so in his body. That is until Tiger gives him a particularly saucy look that reads "Dick you imbecile" and then it's zero to a hundred again.

Alas, all good things must eventually come to a dramatic and dangerous end.

Their bunkmate situation stops abruptly at least a month after bunkering down in the cabin. Tiger is all but healed entirely now with only a few scraps the nanomachines didn't prioritize over the inflamed gut wound on his cheek. The competition is at least another few days away, giving them the time cushion of a week before they have to pack up and head to Turkey. Dick's in the shower scrubbing the oil from his hair when his phone starts ringing on the water tank of the toilet nearby.

Dick looks down at his poor, oozing red dick and gives it a gentle pat. "I'm sorry buddy, duty calls."

Towels off his hand, before taking his phone and putting it on speaker. "Hello?"

"Are you still at the house?" Leonid asks, voice breathless and words coming out in a rush. "Tell me you are not at the house."

"Um," the shower is audible over the phone. Leonid curses in at least three very distinct sub languages of Russian. "We have received word that some of Roman's men arrived in the village nearby fueling up at a petrol station. Black suv, at least five with rifles in the trunk, said they were going hunting. I wouldn't be surprised if they aren't pulling up right now. You have to get out."

Here's the thing, Dick knows he should be calm. He's been in worse situations under tighter time constraints than these before. There is no reason to panic, or at least there shouldn’t be. Maybe it’s the whole, naked in the shower thing, but suddenly he's almost leaping out of the shower like it’s electrified. Throwing on his clothes, still partially slick from water and the remnants of stubborn oil. His protective gear is mostly in disarray—stupid of him to do—so he only has enough time to grab his shoes and his modified sleeper gun.

"We've been made" Dick calls out down the hallway where Tiger is sitting in front of the computer. Tiger is a lot more graceful. Standing up from the computer, he immediately drives a fork from breakfast through the monitor. Okay, scratch that, what kind of reaction was that.

"What are you doing?'

"The entire cabin's been made. Roman isn’t stupid enough to give up if we slip out in time. There is enough information on this computer that one of Roman’s men will find something.” Tiger kicks over the computer itself, taking a knife from the breakfast plate, and driving it into the side panel. “It's time to destroy it."

League protocol is a lot different. Bruce would have killed him if he did the same thing to an infected 2001 laptop. "My team will do a clean-up!"

Tiger rolls his eyes, brushing past Dick into the closet that holds the weapons. He pulls out the ammunition and starts lying it on the floor. "Get what you need, I have my bag in my room. "

"I'm not letting you destroy the cabin."

"It will give us a necessary distraction to escape unnoticed. Unless you want to be pinned down by Russian mobsters who know what we look like and will have no trouble informing Roman be my guest. I, however, am hardly about to let my identity be uncovered for certain this time." Which, alright, Dick admits is a very good argument. He’s a little frazzled okay, exhausted from training and images of Tiger’s huge hands around his neck still fresh at the front of his mind.

Tiger takes one of the bullets and studies it. "Not big enough. Get the gasoline from the old car and any excess in the garage. Then turn on the stove and let the gas fill the house."

Dick balks at the instructions, thinks about the bill that will head to Leonid's department and closes his eyes with a light sigh. "Yeah, yeah, okay, I'll do my best."

"Take everything you can and destroy what you can't." Tiger taps his shoulder and nods his head. "Go on then."

Dick grabs the bags first. Most of their equipment is either already shoved into the bags or waiting nearby in perfect piles to stash. What comes from having a job where being on the run or traveling is about as common as rats are to garbage. Dick's already loaded up the gear with their equipment and a case of weapons before Tiger has even started dumping the next case of ammunition down the stairs. That doesn't do much, ammunition in regards to a fire, but it will make a lot of loud noises to the probably sneaking mobsters. Least they can do is catch them off guard while they high tail it out of the woods and back towards the coast.

There's only one canister of gas in the garage that Dick then dumps over the weakest and most flammable portions of the house. He siphons the gas out of the old car parked on the side of the driveway and backs it up into the house. Leads a trail of oil after cutting the brake line right up to the house where the larger spill of it rests.

The sound of metal clinking rings throughout the house. Jolting, Dick looks up to watch Tiger spill the ammunition down the stairs. Sprinkling down like hail, the bullets scatter across the floor, some even leaking bits of black powder. Dick moves into the kitchen to turn on the oven and stove top while Tiger stumbles down the stairs.

"This is hardly stealthy," Dick regards the house, the outright ruckus of it all. Tiger shrugs.

"I have had messier exits. It's easier than wiping the place down and fearing what may happen if they find a fingerprint or blood stain I missed."

Dick opens his mouth to reply when, over the loud puffing of the oven gas line, the distant sound of aluminum bells echo in the distance. The alarm system around the house. No use trying to locate exactly where it came from, they lost the cameras when Tiger destroyed the computer.

"Oh shit," Dick says and throws himself to the floor.

Another thing about being ambushed, most people tend to rely on snipers. They're quick, they're quiet, there's hardly a mess for them to clean up majority of the time. No one knows they're there until their leaking brain matter down the front of their noses. Really, Dick can think of several reasons why snipers suck total ass from an old bullet wound in the side of his waist given to him by particularly brutal man named Jack from New York. Though Jack always preferred getting up close and personal with his targets.

The alarm bell sounds like it came from the south which means they have at least four miles left before someone gets close enough to get a shot at them. If, of course, they didn’t hear the bells and started setting up equipment for a sniper first. Dick can judge on perception. Roman's mobsters taking the long way around to the house to not be caught but stupid enough to trip the alarm. But Dick, so far, doesn't have the greatest record of guessing just what Roman's men are capable of. That means there is a very high possibility that they might have triggered the alarm on purpose after they surrounded the house.

All in all, not a lot of glass half full options to look at right now.

Tiger is quiet. Staring through the windows from where he's ducked against the wall of the stairwell.

"We have about four minutes," he says, quiet and calm. "Before the fumes become too much for us and we suffocate."

"And here I thought we'd all just stay where we were until the end of time," Dick says and crawls forward on his knees, using the couch as an impromptu blockade. "Sound came from the alarms in the South. I would have a better idea on their location if someone didn't destroy the device we were using the monitor them."

"They must have sent a patrol out earlier, that's the only reason how they could have gotten here so fast if Leonid gave you an accurate time from the phone call. If I didn't see them during that entire time, then they're good. The explosion will be our only option to make a quick getaway. We'll have to ditch the car somewhere else." Tiger slips behind the the armrest of the couch in the living room. He doesn’t move as Dick does, creeping low on the ground. Instead he prowls forward, eyes darting between the windows.

"I'd rather think about escaping before I start thinking about where to drop off the new ride. That's if we survive that long."

"I thought you said you were an optimist," Tiger says.

Dick scowls. "I said I’m a realist with an inclination for looking at things on the half-full side. This is a little past my pay grade."

"Never been pinned down before?"

"Not in the way you're probably thinking, no."

Tiger's face falls. "Incredible, we're surrounded and you are making quips about your sex life."

"You're the one that asked," Dick looks over his shoulder at the window. Most of the windows have bullet proof glass in place, but Dick would rather not give Roman’s men a chance to play catch up. Maybe if they pretend they aren't home Roman's men will tighten the perimeter and come onto their turf. That’s if Roman’s men are stupid enough to get that close anyway. Of course the men could just set charges around the house and blow it up with them inside. Roman didn't seem like the type of man to lament the destruction of a house that wasn't his.

"So what do we do?" Dick asks and Tiger glances from the oven to the garage door.

A moment passes. The silence is eerily similar to the kind in horror movies when the killer “mysteriously” disappears. "Does the car have bulletproof windows?"

"I assume so, unless they wanted their agents to work without modern tech. Which, to be honest, wouldn't surprise me because the Russians never seemed to be caught up with the times people."

Tiger blinks. "Grayson, I need you to focus."

"Sorry, facing death tends to make me chatty. They should be bulletproof yes but that doesn't mean they won't just hop in their cars and chase after us."

"That's probably what they have in mind," Tiger reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a gun. Looks over the safety and tucks it through his belt loop. "How good a driver are you?"

"Decent," Dick shrugs with a nervous laugh. "Though I can't say I'll be able to outrun them if they have specialized cars."

"What kind of car do we have?"

"A Honda Civic."

An exasperated sigh. "This is why Spyral succeeds where your agencies fail. We can be discrete and protected. Alright, here's what we're going to do."

The plan, of course, is nothing more than a Hollywood deus ex machina. Make the house explode into fiery bits of nothing by igniting the oil trail that leads to the fume filled house and gar. Popping ammunition will hopefully be distracting enough to a number of hired brutes. Long enough for them to get away that is. Problem is, fleeing in the direction of the border will only raise more alarms—especially if Roman’s found them in the middle of the woods, they might have someone in SVR.

That won’t do, considering they have a competition to get into in about a week.

Dick sneaks along the hallway into the garage while Tiger waits inside to rig the house. He opens the garage door with a quiet creak. It’s a lot heavier than he expects and it catches several times on a rusty hinge from years of wet weather. Honestly, it seems all very purposeful, like there’s some asshole deity watching Dick try to escape with, hopefully, all of his limbs intact. Which only proves to Dick that if there is a God he must be a total dick too.

In the distance, nearly covered by his fumbling there is the muffled sound of a branch snapping. He flings himself behind the car on impulse Dick just before a bullet skims off the garage door and into the car roof.

"Shit," Dick crawls along the car. Reaches around for his gun and realizes that he left it lying on the bed in his room. He can almost hear his instructor's voice in his head, " _bang, Grayson, you're dead._ "

"Oh great, another thing to add to my list of things I didn't expect to have to do today. Fighting off several Russian villains armed to the teeth with God knows what." Dick looks around. He has no gun, not that he ever liked using one, and is completely defenseless. Not great. Looking around his eyes land on the small stack of firewood neary the door in neat little piles. Snatches up a rather thick piece before he rolls to the other side of the car. "Make it easy on yourself and come out with your hands up!"

There's a laugh. "With my hands up?" Thickly accented English-Italian echoes across the roof. "You are stupider than I thought."

"Yeah, well that makes two people," Dick mutters under his breath and crawls closer to the front end of the garage. "Let's just try and be friendly for five seconds. How does that sound?"

"Bad, come out so I can kill you quickly. Then I can go home." A pause then his would-be killer adds, “or you can stay inside and make it hard. Then I drag you out and break your back and shoot you in the head. Then I go home."

"See that doesn't make me feel any better," Dick says and a there's a bang, a gunshot ringing out above his head before Dick collapses back to his feet. The shot came from the west side of the garage, the clarity of the man's voice tells Dick he's a few feet out. He could get in the car and drive out and on to him, but then Tiger would have to risk exposure to get inside. Sure he’s “healed” how but Dick is still iffy about the extent of what those nanomachines can do.

Dick creeps back. There's of course one other trick he has up his sleeve, and it works, despite what his instructors at the academy says. He keeps talking.

"You’ve got a lot of anger stored up in that brain of yours. You seeing a therapist? I know a great one, she's a little on the rough side. You know, being ex-special forces but I hear she does wonders. And that's after she kicks your ass."

"Maybe your family will see her when they find out you died," the man retorts. He's getting louder from what Dick can tell, possibly approaching the side of the garage. And he's a chatterbox, which Dick doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at the development. Running into someone so like himself on a mission. If only they weren't trying to kill each other. Maybe they could have been friends or something.

"Fantasies of grandeur, you're just the whole kit and caboodle, aren't you? Ever thought of writing books, that fictional brain of yours could probably sell millions." Closer to the entrance of the garage. Dick can see the few thick bushes around the driveway that lead out into the forest. They are packed tightly together. Dick narrows his eyes and looks between the leaves, focusing when the man speaks again.

"You talk too much," the man says and pot meet kettle maybe? "When I find you it will be hard to restrain myself from killing you outright. I will take immense joy in the seeing the light fade from your eyes."

A glint from the thicket near a tree trunk on the left side of the driveway, the scope of a rifle hidden in between the branches of green. Dick grins. "Got you."

Neutralizing a distant opponent with non-lethal force is always highly non-recommended. Often it ends in people getting killed for stupid reasons and is set up to fail. Running away you have more of a chance ducking and weaving, but approaching head on leaves little room for error. It's why Dick heaves the firewood in the direction of the bush. Now a smart soldier would dodge the hit at the same time he fired, keeping the gun level and looking down the barrel until the last possible second. Except this unknown hitman hardly has the appropriate training to not suddenly toss himself to the ground and out of the way of the wrench. Giving Dick enough time to dart from the garage and bat the gun out of his hand with a disarming swipe that would make instructor Lance proud.

The man reacts poorly, of course, throwing a fist up and then going for the gun in his side holster. Dick kicks the hand away from his hip, swinging around his side with agility that comes from years training and circus parents. Legs wrapping around the man’s waist, one arm around his neck Dick pulls it tight and starts choking him.

"That's it," Dick says. "Come on big guy just give into it."

The man writhes in his grasp, equal to Dick’s body weight and height. He goes down almost disturbingly easy. Then again after spending the last month sparring with a man bigger and, admittedly, smarter than him, makes it so. With the man down, Dick rolls his body to the side and checks the perimeter. So far it looks like the only one that made it out, at least to the west side is their unconscious friend. Dick searches his pockets, finds a cellphone, a wallet and a piece of paper with the GPS coordinates of the cabin stuffed inside. Cursing he snaps the phone in half, pockets the wallet before running back to the car.

"Hey," Dick shouts when he opens the garage door. "We're all set."

The house smells like the inside of a car garage. Gasoline and what might be bleach mix noxiously in the air as Tiger approaches him, dress suit on and hair tidy. "What in the world?

"Come on," Tiger says, looking like he’s walked straight out of a Bond film. "We have less than a few seconds before the match I lit hits the gasoline on the floor."

Dick doesn't need to be told twice. Slides into the driver's seat while Tiger takes shotgun. Backs out and drives only enough to get start down the main road before the house ignites in a literal firestorm that nearly bends the trees back enough to crack around them. The car shakes horribly and shrapnel imbeds itself in the back window, nearly shattering the glass.

"Let's go," Tiger shouts when Dick takes a moment to stare at the destruction behind them.

"When you go off, Tig, you really go off."

* * *

During one of Dick's first assignments for the League, he was in charge of the protective detail for a diplomat from Santa Prisca issued by the United Nations where he was lectured endlessly about the ethical dilemma in their country for keeping children in prison to serve out the sentences of their dead or missing parents. It was kind of disgusting and equal parts humiliating, catering to the whims of a man that had aligned himself with a dictator—who called himself an “elected official” by fair vote—who thought that it child prisoners, even newborns, was justified. It was all Dick could do to not arrest him on the spot for the shit that came out of his mouth.

Halfway through the drive back to the hotel they were attacked, literally almost out of nowhere, by a van stuffed to the brim with allies of the rebels. They were led by a man named Edmund Dorrance, a British military officer that had made his home in Santa Prisca. Fell in love with the land and started a revolution that had consumed the country until Dorrance's departure and the subsequent military crackdown. Edmund had left behind a wife, heavily pregnant at the time, that had been charged with the crimes committed by her husband. She died behind bars and their child, now a fully-grown man, spent his life in solitary confinement. To be honest, Dick was half considering helping the man out by giving the rebels the ambassador to make an exchange for the life of his son.

In the end Dick had to drive through the backstreets of Switzerland, dodging street vendors, traffic, and crowds of tourists walking along the Lucerne River. Just as he made it to the League safe house they were cut off by Dorrance and a high-powered assault rifle. Dick was shot with hollow-point, armor piercing bullets that went straight through his upper thigh and left him in recovery for around three months. The ambassador was shot five times in the chest. Edmund was arrested and locked away in some blacksite prison that even Dick didn’t know the exact coordinates of.

His son, now man, was still rotting away in a Santa Priscan jail cell, with no rescue on the way. Dick spent the next week tossing and turning in bed, sick to his stomach at moral dilemma of being relieved the ambassador was killed.

The same sickness festers in the bottom of his gut now. Rising and bubbling in his gut up his throat until it cuts off his breath. Waking suddenly with a gasp, the world comes into too bright of focus, strange an alien until he finds himself tucked between a bus window and Tiger's side.

Dick looks around the back of the bus. They had dropped the car off a while ago in Karachayevsk before hitching a ride with other American tourists on their way to back to Adler. Tiger is awake, watching the front of the bus. While he doesn’t move when Dick stirs he takes a moment to talk.

"We're a few hours from the next stop. There's a border station there that has a small shipping service run by a Spyral agent where we can be smuggled into Istanbul."

Dick wipes his mouth and frowns when it comes away soaked. "You could have woken me up."

Tiger turns to give him an unimpressed look then stares straight ahead. "You hadn't been sleeping well. Before all of this, I mean. I doubt we'll be able to get a lot of it in the coming days. Better to let you get your rest now while we can afford to."

"Do you think we'll be ambushed in Istanbul?"

Tiger shrugs and leans back in his seat with a light sigh. "I don't know what will happen in Istanbul. They'll be looking for two people, it would be easier to travel and apprehend Roman on my own."

"Not a chance," Dick yawns and stretches out in his seat. "Sorry to say you're stuck with me."

Tiger hums. "You are persistent, I don't think I would be able to handle you stalking me any more than I have already had to."

"See now I always thought _you_ were stalking _me_. It was kind of cute, that you were willing to go so far to hunt me down."

Tiger huffs. "Of course you would think of it in regards to yourself."

"Of course you would take a funny joke and make it unfunny," Dick closes his eyes. "How did you get into the whole Spyral business. Or spy business in general really, if you don't mind me asking."

"Spyral gives us the ability to act independently for the peace of the world-"

He cuts Tiger off. "I don't need a repetition of their mission statement. I got that the first time, allows you to do things that you wouldn’t normally be able to do apart of another organization. yadda-yadda I know. But why did you, Tiger, decide you wanted to become an upholder of peace for the entire world?"

No answer. Tiger doesn’t look at him, eyes focused on the front end of the bus. Around them a woman dotes on her young baby, nestled in a baby blue blanket, cooing every now and then. A couple behind them, way into their sixties, stare fixedly out the window at every passing scrap of tree that comes into view. It’s simple. Mundane. Dick can think of a thousand different words for boring and plain for the life of an average man or woman. The world when it comes down to it, is that way. Not everything about the world is pretty. Not everything about the world deserves to be saved. Santa Prisca’s dictators, Qurac’s child soldiers, the red-split grin of a serial murderer. Do they count as Spyral’s definition of the entire world? Would Tiger one day be on the end of the gun that shot through him to reach an ambassador of death?

He swallows. "I mean, everyone says that's what they want. World peace. Ask any of the beautiful girls on those Miss Universe or Miss America competitions and what do they always say? I want world peace, yeah well so does Joe down the street that serves hot dogs on the weekend. Everyone wants it but no one does anything to do it. What made you go into this, effectively giving up everything you could call your own because, let’s face it buddy, your body has become a host for technology that would sooner disintegrate it if you decide one day you want to retire and open a bowling alley in Miami. Why did you decide to actually do something about it?"

Curious amber eyes regard him. There's a glint of something that looks a little like condescension or maybe mirth twinkling in the lighter portions of his eyes. Tiger smiles a little and looks down at his hands. "I don't know."

"Now if that's not the biggest lie I've ever heard in my life."

"Maybe this will surprise you, Dick, considering your own country is made up of men who make promises only to never fulfill them. But where I come from, when you say you’re doing something, you mean it."

"So was that your wish as a child then? Peacekeeper and not veterinarian like every other four-year-old?"

Tiger burns red. "I have half a mind to take you off this bus and over my knee for saying such disrespectful things. You don't know me and you don’t know my life. I won't have you criticizing its choices."

"See now that's what I was attempting to do," Dick says. "That was until you stopped me dead in the water. Then again I doubt you have a lot of time for normal human interaction when you're off constantly saving the world and all that." Dick leans back in his seat. Imagines what life would be like if he had to cut off all connections with his friends and the men he worked with like Tim or Leonid. Shudders at the thought. Couldn't imagine it really. Remembers, though he wishes he could forget, the folded up piece of paper of a letter destroyed in a pool drain.

 _Dick,_  
_I want you to know how much it means to me that you became my instructor. I know we got off on the wrong foot, what with Bruce being the emotionally constipated man that he is. It means a lot to me that you’re willing to take over my training despite Bruce’s reservations. I really appreciate it._  
_\- J_

The tears come even though he fights them. Raises a hand to brush them away quickly as Tiger sits silently beside him. When the feeling passes and Dick can breathe a little easier he leans back against the window.

"I'm sorry," Dick says after another few minutes. "I got angry and I said some things I didn't mean."

"Anger is just an excuse to displace blame for speaking what we are truly feeling," Tiger says. "Your intention was to hurt me with what you perceived as a weakness."

Dick purses his lips and sighs. "Yeah, I guess I was."

The couple behind them awes over the distant roofs of

"You're not wrong, with what you were saying. Cutting myself off from others, not seeking meaningful relationships outside of the job. It's what I am best at. It's how I get inside people's minds and get them to trust me at the start. I see no point in relationships, they will only hurt you and they provide no other purpose than complicating duty.."

Leave it to Tiger to sound even less human than a computer. "But there's no reason to live as an emotionless robot, which is what you’re doing in essence."

Tiger glares at him but sighs. "When I was younger I grew up in a remote place in Afghanistan. We were near the northern border and my parents were traders that would sell livestock to nomads in the nearby mountains. It was simple, maybe, but it was the only life I had ever known. What I wanted to be when I grew up was my father and mother."

"Farmers?" Dick repeats but Tiger shakes his head.

"Good people. "

Tiger leans back in his seat with a light smile on his face. "When I was around ten years old our community was attacked by foreign terrorists from one of the countries bordering our nation. They killed the nomads that would trade with us and set up a compound where they indoctrinated and forced others to become weapons in their mission. Their goal was to hurt whoever they could hurt whenever they could before someone else could stop them. And when Europe and the United States intervened my parents were slaughtered as easily as the men that had invaded our home. They saw nothing, these countries that had come to liberate us, just targets. When the survivors appealed to the foreign governments for aid we were ignored in favor of more lucrative provinces. What good is a government to its people if they see the value of currency and not the face of a fellow man?

Tiger closes his eyes. "I tried to change things. I had to appeal to different parties, different minds, different ideals to push for change I thought should have been glaringly obvious. There was always something that stopped me and while I bickered with overfed men there were children starving outside the courthouse in the dirt. Orphans from parents that had been slaughtered in a war they wanted no part in."

It is obvious to Dick now how deep Tiger’s past weighs on him. Can see it in the bend of his shoulders and the shadows of his face. How the words that fall from his lips in a rush are not heated with vitriol but cold and toneless. The light fades from his face as he speaks, apathy turning him less into a man talking about his home and more of a marble statue.

"I joined the military and became a mindless drone for cowardly men. Then I became a doctor through trial and error in a war zone. I appealed to the UN a number of times and was consequently forgotten. In the end, Spyral approached me. They saw my extensive military and medical record, they thought my goals aligned perfectly with their mission objective. Saw that I was in a position that would make the transfer from civilian to agent easy."

That Dick understands.The lack of relationships, the love governments and rebellions have for men like Tiger. No family to miss them, no friends to mourn them, with a chip on their shoulder from being pushed aside and forgotten. Tiger’s reluctance to be friendly, the tentativeness to engage with Dick on a personal level. It’s embarrassing, how much Tiger reminds him of...

It’s painful, truly, to understand how much Tiger has been seen by Spyral, and himself, a tool. Leaning against him, Dick rests his head on Tiger’s shoulder. "They saw that you were a man with no friends and realized it would be easier to make you an agent than say, Omar down the street with a whole shitton of friends from work and extended family in Pakistan."

That gets a laugh out of Tiger. A little rough gasp of breath but Dick doesn’t have to look up to see the tired smile on his face.

"Yes, that was exactly why. Not because my reputation had already made the rounds at the agency."

"I like my conclusion better. It makes it all a little sadder."

Tiger clicks his tongue and shakes his head. "Of course, my mistake. The next time I recount my life story to someone I'll be sure to take your recommendations into account."

"There'll be in tears by the time you're done," Dick elbows Tiger with a light grin. "Maybe they'll even befriend you out of pity."

Tiger sighs. "How in the world did you ever become a League agent?"

"I don't know." They are quiet the rest of the drive over. Dick thinks about a young Tiger standing over the bodies of his parents and shoves away the idea that they are more alike than he had ever thought.

* * *

The Spyral agent in charge of the shipping port is an eccentric German woman with blonde hair and bug-eyed glasses who takes an interest in Dick almost immediately. Dick can't decide whether it's a good or bad thing because on one hand, points for him for still getting lady attention even though he hasn't had a bath in over three days. On the other hand, she can't stop looking at the curve of his ass with almost jealous fueled glee.

"It really isn't fair," she says, measuring tape in one hand as she eyes Dick from across her workstation. "I do everything I can to add a little muscle and nothing works and here you are walking around with that. The world can be so cruel."

"Thank you?" Dick says, because he doesn't know what else to say to a woman ready to take a bite out of his ass with her scalpel. Or maybe her teeth. Honestly, it’s hard to decide which one would be worse.

"Dr. Netz," Tiger interrupts. "That's enough. We’re here for transport into Turkey. Under the radar."

"I wasn't aware you'd be bringing along a guest. Agent 1, no matter how tempting he might look, this goes against Spyral protocol. I hardly think Matron would allow it." Netz glances to Dick with a little smile. “Unless you wish to leave him here with me for the time being.”

"No,” Tiger snaps. “Besides it’d only take an hour for him to materialize on my side. I am not about to play cat and mouse at the most crucial phase in this case.”

That gets a cocked eyebrow and curious glance thrown Dick’s way. "The ability to keep up with one of our top agents and a good body? You have outdone yourself 1. He'd make an excellent addition to the agency."

"He's not interested," Tiger looks scandalized. Which is offense to Dick because he can’t tell whether it’s on Dick’s behalf for Netz or at the idea of having to see Dick longer than another week. “He is only here to help with apprehending Roman. After that he’ll return to his handler in the Justice League.”

Netz frowns. "That's too bad." Then she smiles and returns to her work desk. "Matron’s been raising the alarm since you disappeared a few weeks ago. Might want to give her a call before she initiates the termination protocol on your software out of spite.”

Dick laughs. No one else does, in fact Tiger kind of looks a little whiter than before "Is she serious? Can your nanomachines really-"

"I'll debrief with Matron,” Tiger says. "Come on Dick."

He sticks close to Tiger, fully aware of the leer Netz gives his backside when they walk past her into the office at the back of the shop. The office looks relatively simple, there's a wooden desk with bills packed and organized on the side. There's a bookcase stocked with different manuals for boat parts, Dick thinks he spies a yellow "How-To" for Dummies guide nestled amongst the back. A tell in a normal situation that a mark might not be what they seem but in Netz's case seems so perfectly odd like her he only nods his head. Yup, totally normal.

Tiger approaches the bookshelf and pulls one of the thicker, leather-bound manuals from the top shelf down.

"Ah," Dick says with a little grin. "The old base hidden in the back of the bookshelf trick I see."

Tiger huffs under his breath. "Not quite."

He opens it. From the long paragraphs and bold lettering Dick guesses it might be an encyclopedia that Tiger flips through until he lands on a certain page, blank on both sides. He sets the book down and presses against the corner of the book. The pages suddenly light up with white static, same as the screen on a television.

An image comes to life on the pages—the screen?—of a room bathed in red. Darkness consumes half of the room, shadows curling around like spirals on the sharp cut of a jawline. A plush mouth frowns, glittering with what must be a metallic coating of liquid lipstick. Dark brown eyes regard Tiger and then Dick, quiet and assessing before the woman regards Tiger alone.

"King," she says. "You took your time contacting me."

"I hadn't the time or the place to do so," he says. Clear, to the point. He stands a little straighter, hands moving to clasp together behind his back. "I had hoped to debrief with you once the mess was over, Matron."

"Selina contacted me two weeks ago. Told me that a trauma unit was delivered, at your request, to a SVR safe house outside of Sochi. Then, two days prior, the house blows up and police find the unconscious bodies of several men wanted for suspected murder in Italy, Spain, and Greece nearby. When you failed to report in I had assumed the Russians had gotten ahold of you." Dick can’t make out the details of her face. Her eyes glitter in the dark, however, and he can see where her neck stands out from the leather of her chair. Poised, ruler-straight. “Who is he.”

Not a question, Dick doesn’t know an inquiry of identification could be a statement.

"I apologize," Tiger says then dips his head towards Dick. "This is Dick Grayson of the Justice League. If it weren't for Dick's timely rescue I would have been dead before I got this information to you, Matron."

She studies Dick. Not like Netz, salaciously with poorly concealed sadistic delight. It’s almost dull, robotic. Nothing more than taking an inventory of what threat he might possess. Which, according to her response, is a big one. "Why hasn't he been taken out of the picture yet?"

Dick chokes on his tongue. Then forces out a laugh elbowing Tiger in the ribs. "Ha-ha, you didn't tell me your boss was such a joker."

"I don't joke about things I mean, Mr. Grayson. As far as I'm concerned your interference has put us behind schedule. I’m aware of the fact Tiger rescued you from Roman a few months ago, despite my orders.” Which, of all the things to hear, isn’t the most confidence-building. Especially when your death seems to be at the top of an intelligence agency’s Christmas list.

"He's proven himself to be invaluable to the mission," Tiger says. "His expertise on the Sionis case, as well as his League training, has been useful. It's why I have agreed to cooperate with him until Roman Sionis has been subdued.

"I never had any reason to doubt your choices before, Tiger, however in this case I must express my dissatisfaction with your choice in partner. He is not only a rival agent who’s purpose goes against Spyral’s mission statement, but is incompatible with your methodology.” Shouldn’t come as a surprise that everyone in Spyral talks with big words and larger egos, but Dick stands there, wind rushing out of his sails as Tiger’s superior bad mouths him.

It’s like meeting your partner’s parents for the first time, only worse.

"I appreciate your concern,” Tiger goes on. Even lifts up a hand and rests it on Dick’s shoulder in totally normal and non threatening way. “But Dick has proven himself to be resourceful and calm in times of tension. I'd be grateful for a temporary recognition of our alliance, at least until the case with Sionis has concluded."

"You know this means he is your jurisdiction? If he does anything outside of mission scope or crosses a country's border the fault will lie solely upon you. Your record is pristine, I would hate for some...rash decision to affect your standing in our department."

Tiger doesn’t hesitate. "I do."

That seems to surprise her. For a minute it is so silent that the faint creaking of Netz adjusting in her seat beyond the office door is loud as thunder. Dick doesn’t dare breathe, rather suddenly feeling awfully like an intruder. When Matron finally speaks again it is gentler, but steady. "I'll have Netz give him some basic monitoring equipment before you ship out."

"Thank you," Dick says without thinking. "For allowing me to work with you."

"Agent 1 is the best operative we have," Matron says. "Please don't further damage his reputation."

The screen goes blank and Tiger shuts the book. "We have a few more hours before Netz will be ready with your equipment, in that time I think you should inform your liaison with the Russian government of your plans. Before they notice how long you've been gone and send a squadron after you."

"I'm pretty sure they already know something is up, we did destroy one of their safe houses." That’s definitely going to hurt Leonid’s already fragile position. _Sorry, buddy._ “Besides, I’d rather not deal with another League agent being deployed after you.”

"Yeah, yeah, course," and because Dick can't help himself he leans against the wall, smug smile on his lips. Raises a hand to his face to feign interest in his nails. "Invaluable to the mission huh?"

Tiger flushes bright, a scowl on his face before the words even finish leaving his mouth. "I should have expected your ego to make an appearance. What I said was to prevent Matron from ordering you silenced."

"You think I'm invaluable," Dick goes on.

"I think that if I were to leave you in the middle of the Pacific Ocean tied to a tree you would still find a way back to bother me. You and I working together is the best chance I have to not need to worry where you might pop up next."

"Still,” Dick moves closer, stepping until he is barely an arm’s length away from Tiger’s chest. Bringing one hand up, Dick loops a finger around the zipper on Tiger’s jacket. “You think I'm _important_."  
  
Tiger’s swallow is audible. Amber eyes tilt down, focusing on what must be the bow of Dick’s mouth. Heart beating fast in his chest Dick wets his lips experimentally just to watch Tiger’s pupils dilate. When he speaks to Dick his voice is rough.

"And, were you listening to the rest of what she said, you'd realize that my reputation now rests on your shoulders. So, unless you want me haunting you for the rest of your life, continually beating you over the head with a wooden spoon or whatever blunt instrument I can find, you will make sure you are on your best behavior. Which means no running off and getting yourself kidnapped by sex traffickers."

Which, wow, sucks the mood right out of him. Dick groans. "That had been an accident."

"Of course it was."

"One day I'll get you to admit you like me.”

Tiger sighs "That will be a long day away indeed."

* * *

Netz finds them sitting on the dock watching the seagulls fly overhead a few hours later. The sun is starting to dip below the horizon, over the water of the Black Sea turning the sky hues of orange and pink. She hands Tiger a nondescript, black briefcase that he takes with a casual ease. Dick, on the other hand, marvels over the one given to him with quiet awe. Turning it over in his hands several times before knocking his hand against it to test if it’s hollow.

"What are you doing," Tiger asks.

Not one to let a joke go to waste. "I'm just testing to see if-"

"You know what, never mind I don't want to hear it. Inside is your observational equipment. Each case comes with a contact lens outfitted with a camera, and, seeing as you don’t kill, a gun with amnesiac ammunition. Instructions on how to assemble the weapon will be inside. I suggest you practice on the trip over.” Dick would correct Tiger that he in fact does know how to shoot a gun—wouldn’t be an agent if he didn’t—but it’s kind of hard to be mad when he’s focusing on how damn cool it all is.

"This is really James Bondish," Dick grins.

Tiger grimaces. "That is fiction, this is reality."

"Bond, Mr. Bond."

_"I hate you."_

Netz has a small trawler that she uses to dredge the waters around the Black Sea for dead drops. When she's not doing that, she is, in her own words, picking apart the brains of deceased agents to create a state of the art android to replace human agents.

"You don't even have to worry about them coming back from a mission. Just make them self-destruct once it's been digitally transferred to you. Don't have to worry about agents getting compromised or," she levels a knowing smirk at Tiger. "Falling for their targets in the field."

Dick grins at Tiger. “Oh, _Tiger,_ not so good at playing the trap, are you?"

"Please, don't talk, I'm considering getting both of you castrated. Or at the very least having your vocal cords removed before the end of this mission."

Netz looks pained. "Well it's time to go anyway."

"Good."

The trawler, keeping up with the movie references, is something straight out of _Jason Bourne._ It’s mostly well-kept, if only for an excessive number of barnacle near the bow. The windows are dark, water stained and tinted, but reflect the sky beautifully. It’s name is _Spinnennetz,_ or _Spider’s Web_. Below deck is a medical workshop that must have been decorated by a Hollywood horror movie set designer. A metal table stained with old blood, an assort of buckets that stink and filled with a dark, viscous liquid, and the pair of manacles melted onto the table top. Even worse is the assortment of tools against the walls that Dick is totally convinced are not just for “sculling fish on the bow."

Who uses a pair of pliers for that?

Tiger notices him eyeing the weapons and gives him glance. Humored by his apparent naiveté. "She is also Spryal’s interrogator."

Dick nods, throat dry. "Busy woman."

"We have at least a few hours before we reach the docks in Turkey. Better to rest now and worry about what Netz may do to you later."

"You say that like it's a guaranteed thing."

Tiger smiles.

Netz stays confined, thankfully, to the cabin's deck, driving and steering the ship across the water. Dick doesn't think it's completely necessary and that maybe she's avoiding them. Which is fine. Because Dick doesn't need her creeping up on him and it gives him some time practicing with the modified gun below deck. Well, more accurately is to get in a calm mindset to even open the briefcase containing it.

Here's the thing. Dick always takes a weapons exam, but it’s one of his least favorite subjects. He almost failed his agent’s exam because of his hesitancy to fire a one. It always, of course, starts with the shaking. His hands begin to tremble and then he can't concentrate without the world swimming in and out of focus in a haze of gray figures. Then he starts to shake and his hands get clammy.

Dick doesn't like guns. He knows that's kind of a weird thing to say considering his whole job description is, be lethal with a gun. The League doesn’t mandate killing targets. That sounds weird, maybe, but the League operates on keeping suspects alive. To prosecute and allow the victims to deliver the punishment. But learning how to use a gun, any kind, is last-case protection scenario. Because it’s a lot easier to make a suspect give up when a gun is pointed at them rather than a fist.

Sure, there was an allure behind it. The dark yet seductive call of power, of being to hold someone’s life in your hands. Dick’s never been that way. As much as he idolized and joked about wanting to be a Bond man, he wasn’t, one, that shallow, and two, that delighted at taking a person’s life. Good or bad, it shouldn’t be his decision.

The grip of the handgun is heavy in his hand, too familiar and if he looks down to where the practice dummy is set up he can see three perfect _holes_ -

"The trick," Dick jumps at Tiger's voice, a drawl behind him. "Is to pull the trigger. It doesn't really work by staring intently down the barrel."

It is unfair, really, how Tiger can shift so easily in and out of roles. With Matron he was stick straight, standing at attention playing the perfect little soldier. With Dick he is the long-suffering partner of the lead in a buddy cop movie. He has played numerous roles throughout the time they have known each other. Lost dad, swamped tourist, young jailbait out for a thrill, all of them gloves carefully fitted to his hand. Jealousy has always come to him fast and hot, especially when it came to impressing his superiors. Bruce then Clark then Diana and the rest of the League.

Months ago Dick would have blamed his failure to see Tiger without envy on lust. Now? Now it’s a lot more dangerously complicated.

Dick laughs a little too shaky. Lowers the gun. "Maybe they'll get a good look at my blue eyes and realize how much of a waste it would be to kill me."

"I'm sure your eyes would be the proof they needed to know it would be better to kill you."

"I'm surprised you need a gun when your words can kill a man twice as fast and with more accuracy," Dick's smile falls. "I don't like guns."

"That much was obvious. I remember you running around with the standard Russian police pistol and used it as a baton instead." Tiger huffs a little.

"Yeah, laugh it up."

Tiger observes him silently. Tilting his head and walking forward with a curious step. "You asked me, why I became a Spyral agent. I told you." Tiger stops in front of Dick and holds out his hand. "It is only fair that you answer my question and tell me why you entered a life that obviously does not suit you."

"How do you know that? Maybe this is what I've wanted to be since I was a kid too. Admittedly, I didn’t grow up in war torn Afghanistan but Gotham can get pretty nasty." _Very nasty_.

Tiger makes a considering noise. "If you are going to riddle me with lie after lie you might as well make them entertaining."

Sighing, Dick shakes his head. "To be honest, if I told you I don't think you'd really believe the truth either. It's kind of, well, a weird and strange story."

Tiger nods. Looks around the small space beneath the cabin of the boat. Then he reaches out and offers an open hand. "We have time."

Looking at him carefully, Dick laughs and shakes his head again. "Alright, well just so you know you asked for it."

"I will make sure to keep my complaints to myself." Dick reaches out to put his gun in Tiger's outstretched palm. Tiger takes it and when Dick moves to let go Tiger curls his hand around Dick’s fingers and steps close behind him.

Dick sucks in a breath, immediately feeling Tiger’s overwhelming heat. "What are you doing?"

"You and I both know that this gun does not hold live ammunition. Everyone you shoot will live. Your fear, however, to use this weapon might mean the difference between life and death. It is best if we overcome your hesitancy now, together while we still have time.” Tiger steps behind Dick, pressing against his back. “I would hate to scoop your brains off a wall.”

"I know how to fire a gun," Dick's throat is as dry as the Sahara. His tongue is a tacky weight in his mouth that catches against his teeth. "I wouldn’t have become an agent if I didn't know how to use it."

"Then do this to humor me," Tiger says, words a soft caress on the shell of his ear. His stubble roughly grazes the tight line of Dick’s neck. Shuddering, Dick takes a second then two to make sure he doesn’t groan when he talks.

"Okay, _okay,_ we'll do your little gun training thing."

"Thank you," Dick can hear the smile on Tiger's face without seeing it. He flushes and takes in a deep breath.

Raising his arms again, Tiger rests one hand on Dick's waist while the other cradles his outstretched hand. "Where did you grow up?"

Maybe it’s the sincerity, the unwavering tenor in his voice that strikes Dick. From the very start of his training with the League he had been taught that his identity was something to be guarded at all costs. Never to be shared or spoken of. He had seen the need to keep a past secret consume other agents, Bruce being the prime example.

After hearing Tiger, a man so like and unlike Bruce, tell entrust Dick with the knowledge of his family Dick is more than just weak. He is vulnerable. The words spill out. "Not one exact place really. Lived in the circus growing up. Traveled around the world with my family. Part of an acrobatic act with my parents."

"That certainly explains something," Tiger huffs. "You have always been a dramatic boy. "Then what?"

"Stopped in Gotham for a performance. Same as any other show, with the exception of a made man for the Maroni family named Tony Zucco coming to collect protection fees against the circus owner. Said he hadn't been paying them for protection. Didn't need to considering they were a traveling circus. Threatened Mr. Haly, the owner, said there was going to be an accident if he didn't pay up. He didn't. One snapped wire later and I end up with two dead parents."

It’s been almost twenty years to the day, still as fresh a memory in the forefront of his mind as when he first met Tiger in Cairo. The high screams of the crowd drowning him out as he tried and failed to blink the images of his parents’ mangled corpses away. That they were standing, dusting themselves off no worse for wear and calling out to Dick in their lovely voices he would never hear again. It’s easier to think about them now without bursting into tears, time and maturity have made it so.

Still it makes him shudder and suck in a sharp breath, hand almost trembling if it weren’t for Tiger holding him steady.

There is silence before Tiger sighs, soft and sad in his ear. "I am sorry, Dick."

Dick doesn’t like to focus on negativity. It’s uncomfortable and awkward and inappropriate so he plays it off with too rough of a laugh. "Yeah, well, at least we have that in common, right? Dead parents."

"That is not the way it should be." Tiger presses a little closer, so his chest is a solid wall against Dick’s back. "Why did you become a spy."

"Because Tony Zucco fled America and lived with the Camorra in Italy for years. I joined the police when I was seventeen, after lying about my credentials, because I wanted to do something, anything that would get Italy to extort him to the United States. Kept trying to get my superiors to open the case, pushing them to do something so Zucco couldn’t do this to anyone else.” Dick chokes on a shivering breath. It’s hard to breathe with how tight past frustration and annoyance wrap around his throat. Can still hear his superior, Amy, telling him _no, Dick, and that’s final._

It took two weeks to get over. Staying in his room, piled up with filthy clothes eating out of boxes of cereal and cans as he started at the ceiling. When he wasn’t doing that he slept. Dreamed of nothing but his father and mother’s corpses eaten by worms in the dirt weeping for him.

“A retired detective, prior to his instatement into the Justice League, James Gordon, saw me and liked the test scores. One talk later and he knew I was too young and too ambitious to be another beat cop pulling over speeders on the highway. Said I should meet his friend. A man named Bruce Wayne."

"Bruce," Tiger repeats, but his tone is a little too sharp. He knows Bruce.

“Ex-CIA officer, retired when he thought the organization was getting too shady and evil. Wanted something that did things better, no more unethical interrogations or bloodshed. Badgered his superiors in the Pentagon for years until they finally caved and created the organization he wanted. Justice League was made, a few other countries became apart of it’s roster. I’m sure you know all about that part."

A noise of agreement. “Spyral and the League are no different. Our goals are the same, to safeguard peace of the world’s population through justice. We differ in the sense that my organization does not come with a leash and collar attached to a government’s hand."

"I didn’t join the League to become a martyr with no human contact or connection to any place," Dick says. "I like my family. I like having a home to return to. The Justice League gives me that option, life without it would be meaningless."

Tiger is quiet for a long moment. Dick shifts lightly in his hold, refusing to stare at the dummy still standing at the back of the room. "Why do you fear guns?"

"I don't fear guns," Dick says, instantly. Blushing, Dick ducks his head and moves a little away from Tiger’s chest. Far as he can really, held still as he is. “I never disliked them either. I know what their purpose is and what they do. It's the “taking life” part I can't stand. I'm sorry if that makes me weaker to you but it's not who I am."

"Being afraid of death even to monsters doesn't make you weak," Tiger says softly. "I think that's a rather admirable quality. It is nice to see someone who understands the value of life so profoundly. Maybe that's why they chose you for this mission. Most would accept their loss and move on. You care about the victims so intensely you would not rest until they were found."

"Wouldn't anyone?" Dick says. Tiger thinks for a bit.

"No."

Dick's hardly shaking anymore. Tiger curls his finger around Dick's on the trigger."When I first used a gun to take a life I was barely a man. The men and women I killed terrified me. For a while I was haunted by their faces."

"That's not exactly the best way to start an argument that's supposed to help me kill people."

Tiger sighs and brings the gun up again, aiming it at the target.

"Your mistake is taking my advice literally. You are haunted by the deaths of your parents and the men that have done the same to others. You fear becoming the same. Using your job to kill people. That is why you are too terrified to use a gun."

"Wouldn't it make more sense if I feared heights? I mean that's how I saw my parents die." Dick says.

Tiger clicks his tongue. "Guns make it an impersonal act. They make it easy, just like your parents falling from a tampered rope. A gun has no good use. You can't use a gun to save a life. Only to take."

Pulling him impossibly closer, Tiger leans his head forward so Dick can see the strong outline of his nose and plump lips. "Do not lose that part of yourself. There are too many men like me, who have become numb and uncaring to the plight of our fellow man. We act without thinking of what is right, only of our duty." Tiger speaks softer. "I once shot someone who I had, at one point, believed to be the love of my life."

"Jesus," Dick chokes out.

"She had been going behind Spyral's back, selling our technology and information to the highest bidder. I thought, maybe, I could change her opinion. That I could convince her to come back to our cause. She refused. So, I shot her when she went to buy fruit from a market. It had been a necessary death to contain the breach of information. But a child watched her brain splatter on the stall next to her."

It is all too easy to see Tiger behind the scope of a rifle. He would probably go somewhere high, on the rooftop of a nearby building where the sun could beat down on his back. The image of a woman in the scope of his rifle. What would she look like? Dark hair and bright eyes like Selina, gorgeous and perfect in everyway. Or maybe she would be plain, simple and slight with an average face but a dazzling smile. Dick can’t imagine he’d let her suffer long, one perfect bloody hole through her forehead.

Although it is also far too easy to see the shocked eyes of a child, covered in blood and brain matter as the woman he stood next to had her brain blown out.

"Maybe, maybe if I had more of my humanity I would have waited until she was somewhere quieter. Maybe I might have waited to take her in and keep her alive, like you plan to do with Roman."

He doesn't know what to say. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth. Imagines what it might be like to shoot Bruce if he turned against the League and started leaking information. If Leonid did or Tim. It is too painful and dark a thought to entertain for long. Especially when familiar faces of friends and family fade, leaving dull green eyes and a red smile in their place.

Dick turns his head. Tiger looks at him carefully, their faces barely a hair’s length from one another. Dick studies Tiger's eyes, finding flecks of hold among deep, rich amber. Their normal warmth is dull, a snuffed out ember with visible sadness. There is no lingering doubt for Tiger’s words, he has seen the own in his face after the loss of his parents. If anything it is only more profound in the expression of his lingering guilt. Dick feels his heart rend in two. Maybe that’s why he reaches up with his free hand to touch Tiger’s cheek.

Then Dick kisses him.

Tiger's mouth is hot, delightfully so. Dry, but soft lips part softly in surprise and Dick only has enough courage to hold himself there before pulling away. Studies Tiger's now half-lidded gaze, the intensity he now stares at Dick. Furious as a summer storm, Tiger kisses him this time. Forcefully taking Dick’s lips with an almost hungry growl. The scrape of stubble against his chin is enough to make his knees shake so violently it’s only Tiger keeping him standing. Dick groans, opening his mouth and hoping Tiger takes and _takes-_

A loud bang forces them apart. Dick's finger accidentally tightened on the trigger just enough to fire it. The once green, quickly turning clear amnesia liquid on the target drips down its center. Tiger’s mouth glistens under the lights from Dick’s shy graze of his tongue. He glances at the target then Dick, face growing steadily pinker.

"Right," he says, shaky. “I should speak with Netz, keep practicing."

Dick watches him go, numbness quickly spreading through his body leaving it tingling in its wake. Lips on fire, Dick brushes two of his fingers against his chin where it burns from Tiger’s stubble. Shit. He is so fucked.

At the very least, it’s a lot easier to shoot the target in the crotch successfully once he sees Tiger's shapely ass disappear up the stairs.

* * *

They'll have to go to the competition on their own. Roman and his men will be looking from two people, not one. Because of that they will both have to stay in different hotels in different areas around and in Istanbul. While they’ll be able to keep in contact with one another over a bluetooth earpiece almost invisible to the naked eye, it’s been settled that the less contact they have with one another, the better. It gives them less of a chance to be caught by Roman or his men, which is at the top of Dick’s “Never Do” list. They’ll have disguises and passports, new ones considering Dick’s old one is now a pile of ash in the destroyed cabin. Netz promises she’ll make him a more fitting one. Which, with the way she grins at her desk, isn’t exactly confidence-building.

Halfway across the Black Sea, Dick decides it's finally time to report to Bruce. With all that’s happened, it would be easier to brush a shark’s teeth than explain all of his admittedly less-than-stellar choices.

He locks the door to the cabin and looks around for any sort of monitoring devices that Netz might have kept tucked away before he settles on a nearby crate. Slipping off his shoe, he turns it over in his hands and takes the heel. With a little force he pops away the rubber end to reveal the hollow interior where his own small earpiece sits.

“Please.” Dick takes it out of his shoe and slips it into his ear. “Please, understand.”

It takes a second to come to life, a small burst of static and then nothing, save for the muffled crackle of interference. Then, quite suddenly, that deep and familiar voice.

"Birdwatcher," Bruce says. "Is that you?"

"Yes." Dick leans back against the wall, tension whooshing out of him. It’s like someone’s come and lifted an entire building off his back. Running a hand through his hair, he focuses on Bruce's calm voice. "It's good to hear from you again, Malone."

Though Tiger knows plenty after their heart to heart, he doesn’t need to give any information to Spyral agents that might be listening in. Codenames are safer; if they weren’t, no one would use them anymore.

"Mr. Draper filled me in after what happened to the SVR safehouse. Are you unharmed?" There’s an edge to those words that lingers uncomfortably. Bruce never did like to see him in pain.

"It was a close shave, but nothing more. Maybe a bit of a wounded ego for being caught off guard by a bunch of stealth-less mobsters."

When Bruce responds, the worry is gone. In its place comes rising irritation in the form of a chiding tone. "Roman employs very dangerous men in his organization. You’re lucky you escaped without anything more than that."

Good ol’ Bruce. It’s completely normal that Dick immediately wants to slam his head against the nearest concrete wall. Lucky he’s out on the ocean, or he’d have a lot of explaining to do. It’s also why Dick doesn’t choose to respond, instead cradling his head in his hands and biting his tongue. Because there’s a big risk he’ll say something snappy right back and then they’ll both start fighting and that will be a disaster.

"You went off-grid for about two weeks. Leonid told us that you had requested radio silence. I already told the SVR it was under my orders so they didn’t start hurling accusations. I expect a reason as to why you never contacted me."

Of course, of course. "I thought you might."

“One that better be _extremely_ detailed as to why you abandoned your League liaison and instead aligned yourself with a known Spyral agent.”

It shouldn’t really surprise Dick, Bruce’s awareness of Spyral’s existence, considering Bruce keeps secrets even from his other commanding officers. It does somewhat catch him off guard, since the organization is kept so well-hidden that even Tim had trouble finding information.

 "So you know what Spyral is," Dick says. Would have been nice to know way back at the start of it all when Tatsu first brought up Dick’s concern with Tim. Probably hoped the situation would have resolved itself before he had to divulge any of his numerous secrets.

"Are you still able to apprehend Roman Sionis?" Classic Bruce.

Dick fights very hard not to sigh loudly over the line. "I will be. We have information that he might be in Istanbul for a competition. Our plan is to get close enough to the Roman’s man who’s competing and put a GPS device on him. After that, observe his patterns, determine a solid location map before making a move..."

Bruce hums over the line. There's the faint sound of clicking and Dick imagines what kind of notes he might be taking. _Dick's in over his head. Stop. Dick's about to make the worst decision of his life. Stop. Someone needs to go down there and save his ass._

"Tim informed me you are working with Tiger King," Bruce says after a few long seconds pass. A pause. "You are aware of his priors, aren’t you?"

"I am aware that his targets tend to end up dead rather than in an international court of law," Dick says. "I've done my research on this, B."

“Listen carefully, then. In Istanbul, there is a shop run by a League agent named Simon Baz. He's from the GLC outfit and has been working on a number of devices for the Corps, including one that will be a good deterrent against Spyral’s nanomachines.”

His stomach decides to curl up and die, sinking somewhere deep in his gut. The sudden wave of nausea threatens to make him fall off the crate. Sputtering, Dick can only manage an, “Uh?” 

Bruce barrels on, oblivious to Dick’s unexpected shock. "It’s a sonic emitter, and while not intended to use in opposition to Spyral’s agents, its disruptive force is extremely potent to any number of electrical signals. Due to Tiger's recent injury, he will have abundance still attached to his nervous system. A direct link to the emitter will cause temporary paralysis for the duration the emitter is in use."

If the nausea was bad before, the red-hot anger that curls around his heart only makes it worse. The blood drains from his face, imagining Tiger’s body locked up on the ground, hands frozen in the shape of claws scrambling for his neck. “What kind of torture device are you giving me?”

"Hopefully one you will not have to use. Tiger must not be allowed to get close to Sionis. Without his information, dozens upon dozens of men and women will continue to suffer under the slavery that he has sold them into. I will not have them suffer a minute longer than they must. Do you agree?"

"Of course, I do," Dick says. "But listen to what you're saying—"

"The device won't kill him; I've had to make harder decisions than this in my time as an agent. Spyral operates with the good of the majority in mind, not that of the few. They would let those already taken captive stay to end Roman’s life."

The memory of Tiger caring for him in the days after his torture comes to him. The way he bathed Dick and cooked him different soups and cleaned up his damn vomit, for God’s sake. Is that the man who cares for the majority over the few? “Tiger isn’t like that. He wouldn’t do that.”

"Unfortunately, that is a risk we cannot afford to take. I'll transmit you the coordinates to Baz's shop to pick up what you need. Malone out.” The line cuts abruptly, taking even the low hum of static with it.

Dick sits alone in the cabin, heart in his throat, with no company save for the sound of the waves slapping against the hull of the ship. Take out Tiger for the sake of a mission. It’s all too easy to see the look of betrayal on his handsome face, staring up at Dick as he turns his nanomachines against him. Tim was right, this is beyond dangerous.

Could he do it? In the end, if Tiger tried to prevent Roman’s arrest, could he actually render Tiger a captive of his own body? Dick takes in a shaky breath, holds it, then lets it go, feeling no better than before.

For the first time in a long time, Dick wishes he weren’t a League agent.

* * *

There are a few things that Tiger hates about Agent Netz. Her affinity for the sharp and sadistic; her love of asking stupid questions; and the dubious morality of her experiments when it comes to testing them out on former and current agents. As well as her adoration for the male form.

"Is there a reason," Tiger starts after a moment of long, awkward silence, "that I had to get completely naked for this examination?"

Netz smiles from where she crouches between Tiger’s legs.

They’re in the medical bay, which is just a fancy word for kitchen-come-torture room and sometimes doctor's office. Tiger sits on the examination table, nude, with his stomach mostly on display. Netz is making sure the nanomachines have done their job patching the wounds together. All Spyral agents are supposed to have comprehensive medical knowledge, enough that they could probably be doctors themselves. Tiger knows that his wound healed without much fanfare. That it is fine and should be able to withstand the amount of hell he's about to put it through in regards to the competition.

But when Netz starts demanding things, it’s best to just nod your head and follow along.

"Because it has been so long since I've seen your stunning form, Agent 1. Would you deny me such a sight?"

Tiger frowns. Netz laughs. "There is another reason. Your immune system is still partially compromised from the amount of exposure you received. I'm giving you another steroid injection to keep you steady for the next week or so. Beyond that, you’ll have to come into headquarters, either of your own will or forced removal from duty. You’ll need a detox of the remaining nanomachines before they wreak havoc on your spine."

Tiger grunts. "It will not come to that."

"Of course, you are the best Spyral agent I’ve ever seen." Netz stands up. "Why would I expect anything less from the great Agent 1?"

Tiger narrows his eyes and Netz taps her chin. "Right, there was something else."

Netz leaves Tiger on the table to step over to her small workstation. On it is a sink in one corner, along with a steel tray that contains the sort of medical equipment one would see in a standard general check up—plus the obscenely large steroid and nanite injection. She clicks down on a portion of the wall above the sink where a button blends in behind the ugly, mustard wallpaper.

The faux wall at the opposite end of the room slides down, a screen revealing itself, already on with Helena’s bored face waiting in the dark of the director’s room.

She raises an eyebrow, eyes glancing up and down Tiger’s nude form. He doesn't bother hiding it; Netz has done worst things before.

"Matron," he says, casual.

 "Agent One." Helena tilts her head. "Is it hot?"

"I suppose it is." Tiger doesn't bother sparing Netz his furious glare. "I just had to get more comfortable.”

"What would we do without your wit?" Helena leans back in her seat. Watching the shadows fall across Helena’s face, he decidedly ignores Netz as she fiddles about her station. "I have an alteration to make to your mission."

"What is it?" He has been never one for protesting mission additions. Things happen in the field, and the better agent learns how to adapt rather than complain about what cannot be changed.

"Your companion, the League agent, Richard Grayson."

That, however, is not something he thought he’d have to worry about. Tiger thought he proved Dick’s usefulness quite well already, considering Tiger vouching for anyone is substantially rare. "Yes, he has proven himself to be quite useful when he isn't making inane puns."

"He’s also a fine thing to look at," Netz says with a little smirk. When Tiger stares her down she shrugs her shoulders. "What? I'm not blind and neither are you. He is an excellent American man."

“There are a number of things that are useful. Dogs are useful until they get bored of the treats you offer as a reward. Richard Grayson is a loose end that needs to be tied up.”

His fear is an ice bath, freezing him right to the marrow of his bones. It is a marvel that when he questions her his voice doesn’t shake. “What do you mean?”

"You know as well as I do the Justice League is an organization that doesn’t seek the death penalty for their suspects. The only record we have of a death at the hand of the Justice League was the killing of serial murder and international terrorist Jack Napier in self defense several years ago. Beyond that there is nothing. Richard Grayson is an outspoken support of the Justice League’s methods. Roman Sionis is cannot be allowed to be taken into League custody.”

Tiger has never before questioned Helena’s decisions. He stood aside when they were both up for the position of Spyral director, finding her judgement admirable and loyalty unparalleled. It is almost unnaturally strange that he suddenly object. “Why? Why can’t he put but in prison?”

"Because he has spent the better portion of his life as a warmonger. His actual company, the one that is currently being run by his puppet Ms. Diana Li, deals in steel production. A company that received significant gains during operation Desert Storm and the War on Terror. Roman has been secretly funding missions with the revolutionaries in Georgia led by Hadrian Armstrong. Do you think the men and women he has been kidnapping are solely being used as toys for the rich? He has been giving Armstrong bodies to fatten his ranks. Ones that can’t run away."

While there is no outward indication of Helena’s internal thoughts, Tiger has known her long enough to pick up certain tells. It is an incredible thing, how much you can learn from a person’s body language. With Helena, he sees it in the tight line of her neck and the light glint of red light reflecting off her irises.

She is not exasperated. She is absolutely livid.

The explanation she gives him should be enough. Normally, it would be enough. That was before this case, before Dick caring for him half-dead in a SVR safehouse. Literally going against his own organization to make sure Tiger recovered.

"We can dismantle his company when he is in prison."

Helena’s silence is worse than her barking orders. When she speaks it is cool and unyielding. "Roman Sionis has one of the greatest lawyers I have ever known. Harvey Dent has gotten child murderers and rapists out without a scratch to their records. He will get Roman off of any charge the League tries to pin on him. Ms. Li will continue to operate under his orders through, most likely, communication through Dent. That goes against everything our agency stands for. Roman Sionis must die."

Tiger clenches his hands. He thinks about Dick's face and the way he leaned back into him below deck. The trust in his bright eyes as he glanced up at Tiger and told him about his parents’ deaths.

"Understood."

"Which makes my next order very difficult," she says with a heavy sigh. "Tiger, in the effort to make sure that the world does not lose any more lives than it must, I must issue you this order. If Richard Grayson gets in the way of your mission of killing wanted terrorist Roman Sionis, I give you explicit orders to kill him without hesitation."

Tiger straightens up on the table. "Helena, you can't—"

"Should you be emotionally compromised, I will replace you with the nearest available officer. That agent would be Minos.”

The order burns Tiger to his very core. That Helena would place Dick’s fate in the hands of a man so like Roman they might have been raised in the same sadistic hellhole together. Dick wouldn’t even have to be in the way for Minos to shoot him.

"You have always been extremely professional in the past, keeping your duty free of emotional attachment. I am giving you one more chance. If I detect even a hint of resistance or refusal to follow these orders, you will be replaced. Do I make myself clear?"

Tiger purses his lips. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good," Helena nods. "I have the utmost confidence in you, Tiger."

He thinks about the soft press of Dick's lips against his own. Of the way his eyes wrinkled at the corners from a smile too big for his face. Of the bloody ring of a bullet hole straight through his forehead.

* * *

They reach the dock on the Turkish coast about twenty miles from Istanbul the following morning. A few of the fishing trawlers are just coming into the harbor from pre-dawn catches, nets heavy with fish. It’s mostly empty on the docks, save for a group of children watching the sun rise over the glass-like water of the Black Sea. The air is still brisk and cool from the night, the rays of the sun already bringing a cozy and delightful warmth.

Dick can smell fresh bread from a few of the bakeries dotted along the road near the docks. The doors aren’t open yet, but men and women in white aprons move beside the windows, stacking the shelves with various assortments of pastries. His mouth is already watering at the sight of it. All there was to eat on the ship were Netz’s own homemade protein bars (that tasted a little coppery for something supposedly made of chocolate). Before that, it was bags of chips from gas stations they stopped at long enough only to fuel up.

Another sharp itch springs up along the back of his head. His scalp must be inflamed from the dye job Netz gave him, bent over the ship’s rust-stained sink. Freshly blonde with hair extensions weaved into the strands, Dick regrets ever wanting to change his hair.

"If you keep doing that, it will only hurt more." Tiger says next to him. He's just finished Fajr of daily prayer which normally leaves him refreshed and marginally less grumpy than normal. Now, however, the frown on his face is deeper than normal. Eyes not meeting Dick's.   
  
A hole grows in the pit of Dick's stomach. They weren't able to talk much the night before, what with Netz's examination and Dick's own exhaustion on top of the weight of the possible betrayal hanging on his head. Maybe, maybe he overstepped his bounds? There is a very high chance that Tiger doesn't like Dick the same way he does Tiger, if at all. Tiger's never made his irritation at Dick's tongue or actions a secret. Perhaps the kiss was enough convince Tiger enough was enough.  
  
Dick swallows tight, a hard lump in his throat.

"Yeah well, you try leaving bleach in your hair for ten minutes past the recommended time," Dick forces down the rising upset in his voice. Starts tugging at his hair again, because his skin and the synthetic strands don’t like playing nice. How do people who wear wigs manage? It’s hard not to be jealous of Tiger.

Tiger's hair is long enough to go down to the center of his chest. It's been braided with a surprising amount of finesse by Tiger himself. A strand of white ribbon has been weaved inside with the chocolate strands of hair. Tiger’s charming beard has been shaved away—which Dick befittingly gave a touching sea funeral for—leaving nothing more than a five o'clock shadow. His eyes are a deep shade of blue, with only a hint of brown from his natural iris peeking through the clear part of his contact lenses. Dick himself scratches at the thick sandy-blonde hair glued to his upper lip.

"The more you scratch, the more attention you draw." Tiger watches him, not bothering to hide his smirk. "Ignore it and it will be better."

Alright, file that away in the drawer marked _World’s Most Useless Advice._ "You try ignoring this bush over your lip."

Tiger stares at him for a minute. Then two. "I hope you know how dumb that sounds."

Dick is quiet. Then he nods. "You're right, shutting up now."

Tiger huffs a quiet laugh under his breath. His cheeks feel hot, and he has to look away, because Tiger smiling is equivalent to smoking an entire joint. Totally distracting, and makes Dick giggle stupidly. "The competition will be in two days. Your identity and mine both belong to current wrestlers who will not be attending the event."

"And how do you know that?" Dick asks. There's a little concern there, mostly because Spyral code seems to involve a bullet.

"Freddie," Dick's identity, "will unfortunately miss his flight. Mahmut will be staying home from food poisoning," Tiger says. "And before you ask, we did not poison Mahmut. He happens to eat at a corner market that had a shipment of bad lamb they hadn't taken off the rack."

Which is a little scary that they found out so much about a man in a single evening. "Wow, alright. So, where are we going after this?"

The amusement drains from Tiger’s face. "We shouldn't see each other until then."

Can’t say he expected otherwise, it’s practically protocol. Not that Dick has to like that. Especially now that it means he’ll have to go to bed, alone, without Tiger’s soft growling when he dreams. “So what you’re telling me is this is the end of the line for the two of us.”

Tiger drops his gaze and Dick sees a little sadness in those amber eyes. Of course, he’s probably just seeing things. Tiger, upset that he won’t have to deal with Dick’s unnecessary complaints anymore? He’ll probably start jumping up and down like a kid on Christmas morning the moment Dick disembarks. Dick forces a smile.

“Well, it was certainly fun while it lasted. I will forever treasure the memory of seeing you on a dock in Italy in yellow crocs and an atrocious neckbeard.”

Tiger’s eyes snap back up, inflamed and alight. That’s much better; makes it easier to ignore the hurt when he’s too busy getting aroused. Woof. “Don’t be upset, baby, it’s just the way things have to be. Try not to miss me too much. I know how hard it will be to go to sleep without my loving embrace at night.”

“Goodbye, Dick,” Tiger snaps and turns away. Well, not before throwing one last parting glance over his shoulder as he disappears below deck.

“Wow,” Netz says, and Dick nearly jumps a story high out of his skin. “I’ve seen happier goodbyes at the end of _The Notebook._ ”

“Do you really have to sneak up on everyone?”

“Yes? That’s part of my job description. Medical examiner, scientist, creep to anyone with a pulse.” She leans in closer, lowering her voice. “Considering corpses don’t tend to run.”

“Right.” Dick inches a little closer to the bow of the boat.

“You’ll find your discrete communication earpiece within your briefcase. I wouldn’t use it until you are in Istanbul. Or close to it. The less you use it, the less someone could wiretap your call and report you to the government or to Roman. The airway line should be a direct connection, but if it doesn’t, it will be like 34.5. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

Netz smiles. “Good. It was a shame we didn’t have time to get better acquainted, Agent Grayson. There are a lot of things I am dying to know about you.” Dick frowns over the particularly lecherous gaze that lands on the curve of his ass and trails down the length of his thighs and up again. “ _Quite_ a lot of things.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that in the future.” Like a nice reminder on his phone that says, “Avoid at All Damn Costs.”

Satisfied with whatever she sees, she walks him to the edge of the stern. “We’re dropping you off in Rumelifeneri. It’s about an hour away from the main center of Istanbul. I’m sure you have your own headquarters to drop by and whatnot.” Netz smiles and offers her hand so Dick can steady himself as he steps onto the dock. Tries not to think about all the naughty dreams of Netz that just came true.

“Good luck.”

* * *

Rumelifeneri is a relatively small but quaint town on the edge of the Black Sea. Dick spends a few minutes wandering around while he waits for the early metro train. The apartments are packed together, balconies decorated with flags or hanging potted plants that bask in the morning sun. Every corner of every alley smells like the sea, and the waves crashing on the shore are a constant sound. He buys a simit from a bakery to nibble on before boarding the metro among a few dozens of people going to work. No one looks at him, save for one toddler leaning over his mother’s shoulder. Finds something interesting about Dick’s hair and spends the commute pulling the extension free.

Simon Baz’s storefront is in Sariyer, a half an hour away by metro from Rumelifeneri. Dick studied the map that Bruce had Tim transfer him late last night. The knowledge he’ll be going behind Tiger’s back after everything the man has done for him doesn’t sit well in his stomach. Add that to the fact Dick is obtaining a weapon that will render Tiger immobile and, maybe, in pain. The silver lining, at least, that gave Dick a little reassurance is that Spyral couldn’t use the nanomachines once they were deactivated to set off a kill order. If they wanted to do that they would have to do it the old-fashioned way. By that time, hopefully Baz and his team will have finished clean-up. Which means Tiger in League custody.

Dick slumps lower in the city and closes his eyes. When did being an intelligence agent become so complicated?

_Well, normally you don’t fall for another one, don’t you, Dick?_

Man, he is a tool.

Sariyer is a lot bigger than the port town. It’s still relatively small compared to the teeming metropolis that is main Istanbul, but it’s cozy with homes dotted along the hillside. The slim roads wind back and forth, shaded by dozens of green trees. It’s a little surprising Simon would settle here instead of his ancestral home in Lebanon. Dick understands it now, seeing it. It’s relatively suburban and relaxed, not Simon’s usual style, but man, does the town have a view.

Not to mention he’s in prime position for the most action of black market goods moving between Eastern Europe and the Middle East. The GLC always get the best gigs.

Simon’s place is a little auto-shop with his name in large, elegant cursive over the door. Inside the garage are several fairly average cars; a Honda and a few plain sedans. Among them rests one customized Ferrari, jet black with green highlights around the wheel wells and bumpers. Yeah, Simon’s garage, alright.

The man himself is bent over the hood of the Ferrari, hands smeared with grease, a dark oil thumbprint on his cheek. His eyes are a light hazel with bright green flecks that widen, then brighten, when he sees Dick in the entryway.

“Bruce told me, but I did not believe it. Dick Grayson, how long has it been?”

“Hey, Simon.” They never spoke that much. Dick trained alongside Simon’s handler, Kyle Rayner, some years ago when they were both junior agents, Titans. Saw each other a lot more when Dick and Kyle took on their own trainees. Happier days. “I see the League is keeping you busy.”

“Ha, ha.” Simon straightens up, wiping off his hands on his dirty coveralls. His GLC ring, a gleaming emerald green with a lantern insignia, glints in the sunlight. “My position gives me enough leverage that I can work two jobs to help my brother and sister-in-law.”

Dick dips his head. Simon’s brother and sister-in-law were in an accident when they were young and reckless. Dozens upon dozens of surgeries later, and his brother has only barely started physical therapy in his wheelchair. Paralysis and a four-year coma can do a lot to a man. Simon had rocketed straight through the academy with some of the best scores the League had ever seen. It was no surprise that he had been targeted in early training for the GLC, Hal seeing the same go-getter attitude in himself in Simon.

Like his predecessors before, with his brilliance came shades of recklessness that made him an exceptional Corpsman—a reason Bruce could hardly stand working with them at the best of times. He was a gift with machines, even if the interest originated with cars. Kyle had only helped that ingenuity grow wider, and he’d become the GLC’s go-to tech guy.

“I can’t stay long, I’m just here to pick up the emitter. Is it ready?”

“Yeah.” Simon closes the hood of the car and beckons him over. “It’s inside, come on.”

The interior of the office is blessedly cool. A small desk fan blows a few of the papers to and fro across the desk. Aside from the desk there is only a filing cabinet, an iron chair, and a few leather seats for waiting customers. Simon heads straight to the filing cabinet, pulling free a drawer until he removes it entirely from the tracks. At the back of the now-open space is a tiny little lock in the shape of a lantern.

Reaching his hand inside, Simon presses his ring into the lock with a click. Turns his wrist to the right, then left, then pushes forward and makes the entire office shudder.

“Identity confirmed. Welcome Baz, Simon,” a voice says from nowhere. “Please confirm unauthorized second identity.”

Dick clicks his tongue. This part is always so lame. “League Agent, code name, Nightwing.”

A beep. “Identity confirmed. Welcome, Grayson, Richard.”

The filing cabinet snaps to the side and swings forward like the thick steel door of a vault, revealing the descending staircase behind it. Simon takes point, walking down the stairs. “It’s been a while since you’ve been on this side of the world by yourself. I thought you were still on probation after what happened to Jason.”

Dick frowns and Simon quickly backtracks, stopping midstep. “I’m sorry— I didn’t mean—”

“It was a long time ago.” Which is true, but it doesn’t mean it hurts any less.

“Right,” Simon says, still refusing to move. He looks at Dick’s face, eyes flicking back and forth, grimace growing by the second. Dick almost knows the exact words he’s going to say before he speaks. “Jason was a good friend of mine, even if we were only in training for a few weeks. Kyle spoke very highly of him.”

Dick swallows past the thick lump in the center of his throat. “Thank you.”

Simon’s eyes search his face for a moment longer. He turns then, walking down the steps and leaving Dick, chest tight and cold, in the stairway. It takes a few seconds to get his breath back and follow Simon the rest of the way down.

The lab in the basement of the garage is straight out of a Hollywood movie set. There are weapons dotting the walls that Dick has never seen. Sleek and silver—and of course, green—with long muzzles and wide scopes. None of them are made with lethality in mind, but Dick still winces with the unease lingering in his gut. Among the numerous devices is a slim, black tool hardly as refined as the rest. It has the appearance of a tiny satellite dish attached to a tube as wide as his index finger.

“That’s it.” Simon takes the strange object from the wall and holds it out.

“That’s it?” Dick stares at the thing. “It’s a little obvious, don’t you think?”

"The antenna is retractable." Simon demonstrates by clicking the bottom of the cylinder. The antenna folds up and slides neatly back into the tube. When it closes, it has the appearance of a wide pen. "I would have preferred making it smaller, but considering the amount of time you have to get to Istanbul without alerting Spyral, this will have to do."

Dick takes the emitter and tucks it away into his coat pocket.

"All you have to do to use it,” Simon continues, "is press the button to unfold the antenna, then double click the bottom to start the pulse. If you want to stop it, just double click it another three times and it should be fine. It needs to be within at least a sixty-foot radius of the agent to affect the nanomachines. I suggest leaving the device on the agent once you subdue him to keep interruption going.”

He should win an Oscar with how calm he keeps the following question. Because internally, he’s screaming.

"Are there any other side effects other than what’s already known?"

Simon’s response doesn’t encourage him. "No, but we've never gotten to test it on a human body for a prolonged amount of time. If you're worried, I would say no longer than three hours. I wouldn’t worry about that, he should be in League custody before that happens."

Dick hardly relaxes. How could he, knowing that he’s about to willingly betray the one man he’s grown so attached to? "Thank you. I'll keep in contact."

"Of course. Good luck, Dick." Simon smiles.

_Yeah, you don’t know how much I need it._

* * *

Dick doesn't stay directly in Istanbul. He stays across the river at the Swissotel, an expensive but luxurious five-star hotel on the top floor. Gets a spectacular view of the city skyline and the lit bridge at night all to his lonesome self. The room is two stories, a penthouse with a wide open living area where his briefcase, unpacked, barely makes a dent.

He rips off his mustache and beard as soon as he gets the chance, staring at a reflection of himself he doesn’t know. Dick’s half-tempted to take a pair of scissors to his new long hair. He used to like this part. The pretending, the undercover aspect of being a League agent. But now, now he’s sick of his weird hair and face. He wants… he wants Tiger’s grumpy company.

Tiger isn’t there, of course. He’s staying at, of all places, a Hampton further west from city. The next two days they have to themselves are to observe the arena and local area. The purpose is to examine the set-up and to prepare, mentally at least, for the coming competition. They have to establish themselves as tourists in the city, especially if Roman’s men are out looking for suspicious people.

He showers, spending a long time just letting the water run down his back, mind blank. It makes him feel a little more human, getting rid of the stink of stale salt water, but does little more to his conscious. Sinks into bed early, when the lights start to get too bright in the city, and just thinks about his last talk with Tiger.

"Lawrence flew in last night, according to Matron's intel," Tiger said while spreading out the map of the city on the steel table in the ship’s cabin. “He’s staying at a hotel a block from the arena and has been using the gym to train. It would be safer to avoid interacting with Lawrence until the competition. Less likely to recognize us that way.

"Will Roman be attending the competition?" Dick asked. "You spent the longest time with him."

Tiger tapped his finger on the edge of the map."Roman is very busy, and he doesn’t care about his men’s hobbies," Tiger says. "The only way we’ll find him is by getting a tracker on Lawrence."

Dick sighs into the silk pillow. This was his last chance. If Tiger succeeded, his agent status would be revoked, and he would either be fired or stuck behind a desk filing paperwork for international copyright cases. Betraying Tiger would allow him to keep his job at the expense of a closeness to a man he’s grown so fond of. A man that had risked his own life to care for Dick, and who might have died had Dick not stumbled upon him by chance. It’s a decision he never thought he’d be stuck making, and his heart beats so fast in his chest that he tosses and turns all night.

The few moments of sleep he gets, he dreams. Not of tooth waterfalls or nurses or rainbows, but of a dozen memories coagulated into one grotesque vision.

He is on the roof of a building, looking out at the stars like he did in the dream in Russia when Tiger was watching over him. A breeze caresses his cheek, rustling the piece of paper he clutches in his hand. It is wider than the letter he remembers. Smoother paper, scratchy like newsprint. He doesn't want to look at it. He knows what it says, can repeat it by heart now. When he drops it, to throw it away and let the wind carry it into the water waiting stories below, it blows right back into his hand.

It is not his will that the hand lifts the paper to his face. It moves without thinking, raising higher and higher until the off-white paper consumes the stars above him.

It is a newspaper clipping. _DOZENS DEAD AFTER EXPLOSION IN METRO — SUSPECTED WORK OF THE DECEASED TERRORIST KNOWN AS "THE JOKER."_

Below that the story has been replaced by the lines of a letter.

_"Dear Willis and Catherine Todd,_

_It is with profound regret that I must inform you of the death of your son, Jason Peter Todd, killed on the 27th of June, 2011. He was an honorable man that showed great promise who died serving his country, committing the greatest sacrifice a man can give. I offer you my most heartfelt sympathy for his loss. You will be receiving his last salary as well as a protective fund that he set up in your names. His body will be delivered to you on July 3rd, 2011 along with his belongings._  
_  
Should you need any help moving forward you may contact the Justice League at this number, [REDACTED]._

 _Sincerely Yours,  
_  
_Richard J. Grayson."_

His eyes snap open into the bright light of mid-morning. Breathing harshly, he cups his hands to his face and pulls them away wet. The entire pillowcase is soaked with his sweat and tears. It takes an hour before his heart stops beating hard enough he fears it will burst out of his chest.

He lied to Tiger when he told him he feared guns because of what happened to his parents. He's scared of what he is capable of with a gun.

* * *

The arena where the competition will be held is not actually an "arena" in the traditional sense of the term. There are wooden stands and metal ones in the process of being constructed around a large field of grass that is about twice as large as a football field. The grass is being sectioned off with rope and Dick can see the announcer tents being placed every few feet. As far as Dick knows, there isn't exactly a prize for winning the competition, aside from what he assumes might be bragging rights, but that it is a sport highly regarded in the nation’s culture. Fascinated, Dick watches from the palazzo of a high-rise building, eating lunch. Sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he observes the workers below with a casual eye.

It's the first time he’s ever been so blasé about an observation mission. Dick highlights the spots where he can escape, others where he assumes the most people will pile in to watch, and areas that might be a chokehold. Besides that, he's not looking for bombs or assassination points. Lawrence is only there to compete like he does every year, then return to Roman. All Dick must do is make sure he can hold his ground long enough to be able to get close enough to wrestle Lawrence. Which will be a hard mission in and of itself.

The lessons Tiger gave him in Russia were helpful, of course, but he was also very distracted. Not that anyone should blame him for it. You try wrestling the hottest man on Earth and not think about the way his weight feels on your back. He’s going to have to rely a lot on luck tomorrow.

Dick sips some more of his fancy lemon water and peers over the glass railing of the palazzo.

He can see a few buildings nearby, all with good vantage points, but empty. Not even a telling little shadow peeking out from over the edge of the building’s wall. Dick doesn't think Tiger would get too close to the arena to observe, so why he hasn’t seen him yet?

Tiger could be on the ground, blending in with the workers to find an area to catch Lawrence by surprise. Lawrence, after all, might be a shitty wrestler. If he loses before Dick and Tiger can fight him, they’ll have lost their chance to find Roman. One of them will need a plan B. Maybe he should think about doing it himself.

Dick's always been a fan of the more "run and gun” style anyway. Should neither of them get close to Lawrence, tailing the man across rooftops has always been his signature move. He wonders if Tiger remembers that from when they first encountered each other in Cairo. They must have both been after the Georgian terrorists—no reason why Tiger would be there otherwise—which is embarrassing to think about. Probably saw Dick running across the rooftops from his failed eavesdropping. None of that will happen this time. He'll make sure of it.

He sinks back in his chair and starts playing _Where's Tiger_ again. Imagines Tiger in a red striped shirt making his way around the crowds doing insane things like _smiling_. He laughs; he misses having a partner to talk to.

Then, of course, the radio comes to mind, and Dick’s never been that needy of a man, but he’s lonely as fuck after going several months with at least one person calling him a shit. So it’s not a good idea to use it, he gets that, but the dream he had last night has left him uneasy and alone.

He ducks down to fix his shoe, slipping the earpiece out of his sock and popping it into his ear. He taps it after a few minutes of continuing his lunch and then mumbles a quiet, “Hello."

There is only silence for almost ten minutes. Dick assumes that he must have gotten the wrong frequency and thinks about how to change it. Gives up on Tiger responding to him when he says hello again and goes another five minutes of not even buzzing static. Opens his mouth a third time just to start bullshitting to at least pretend when a loud sigh filters through.

"What is the point of telling you minimal contact if you just ignore my instructions anyway?"

Dick beams and cuts into his food. "You're the one that answered."

He can visualize Tiger's frown in his mind's eye. It's adorable. "And you have a habit of displacing the blame when it doesn’t suit you."

"I missed being called out on my shit. I got tired of trying to pick you out of the crowd, so I decided to cheat."

"What makes you think that I am even down there?"

"Because it's noon and the work crews are setting up the major structures for the arena, giving you a perfect idea of where the exits and vantage points might be." Dick takes another bite of his lunch, Köfte. "Also because I know you like boring stuff, like watching paint dry, or a man slowly regain his eyesight."

"Maybe I should have let you stay blind." There's a huff. "You, Grayson, are one of the most annoying men I have ever met."

"Most people tell me that." Dick smiles and starts looking around again. "Where are you?"

"At the villa on the street. I admit it doesn't give me a great bird's eye like yours, but I can talk to the workers about the set-up." He pauses. "I'm surprised you aren't doing that right now."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

"You're annoying me and not someone that has pertinent information about the case, unless that's what you planned to ask for when you contacted me."

"To be honest, my real goal was to irritate you. But now that you offered, I have to ask what kind of ‘pertinent information’ you've found out."

"Be glad you are out of my reach, because there is nothing more I want to do in this moment than choke you."

" _Kinky._ "

"Enough," Tiger grunts. "The workers say that majority of the well-to-do European men always demand a shaded box for a little extra cash. There is a chance that Roman's sidemen, such as Harvey Dent, might be there. We'll do well to keep an eye on the tent. The men competing in front of it have numerous wins under their belt."

"I'm not exactly big," Dick says.

"Then I would keep out of their hands," Tiger says. "Lawrence will be in that group, and your identity to the judges will be that of a man with multiple wins from America."

"Not American," Dick says.

"You carry yourself with the self-importance of an American," Tiger corrects, exasperated. "That will work for you if you encounter Lawrence or Dent. They will flock to an American or someone they think is like them. It will benefit you to come across like your old mentor."

Dick thinks about acting like Bruce, which isn’t something he particularly wants to imagine, and nods to no one. "If you think so."

"It will help if they see you as a man they can get along with, rather than a foreigner like me." And Dick can’t exactly argue with that, especially after what had happened to Tiger.

"What are you planning to do after this?" Dick says and he almost facepalms himself, it sounds so lame. What are you doing after this? Like he's a teenager with a crush.

There is a sigh. "Dick, you know we shouldn't be interacting with each other unless absolutely necessary."

"I only want to speak with you for a little.” Awful save, three-year-olds lie better than he does. “We can scout out the upper district together and find out where Roman might be hiding."

For a moment there is nothing, just a long pause and a light breath of a half-formed word. Dick’s heart rises into his throat and he hopes desperately Tiger might say yes.

That’s fiction, however, and this is reality.

Tiger responds as Dick knew he would. "No, Dick. In the future, unless you have information that is imperative to the mission, you will refrain from contacting me.” Then the line really does go dead.

Dick grumbles and folds back into his seat, pushing a hand through his hair with a tired sigh. _You are the biggest idiot to walk this side of the planet, Grayson._

* * *

The day of the competition is boring.

Just kidding, it's hell on earth. The streets up to the arena are lined with people, laughing and bumping into one another to get seats in the stands. Those that don’t get there fast enough don’t mind, crowding around the string barrier that keeps them from the competitors, shouting to the ones they know with smiles on their faces. Men competing in the event come already dressed in their kisbets. Signing themselves in first, they head over to the line of pails filled with warm olive oil next, pouring it over their heads like water.

It’s loud and crowded, and Dick has the biggest grin on his face.

He gets in a line with men taller and broader than him, looking like a twig trying to hide among a pile of stumps. The men look at him with confused, and a couple impressed, glances. A few of them, helpful and kind, tell him that the line for the smaller beginners is on the other side of the event. Dick smiles and tells them he's in the right place.

They laugh and clap him on the back.

"Little giant," one of the men says. "You will do well in competition, yes? Don't let me down I want to be able to fight you."

The majority of the men are happy. Boastful about what they intend to do with their friends, chatting about who will get the furthest and how they’ve improved from years before. Out in the center of the grass section nearby, a couple men warm up. A lower and younger weight class of boys grapple with each other nearby and the crowd cheers when the younger one, barely older than thirteen, gets a firm lock on his companion's kisbet.

The men around him holler and clap when the child is announced the victor. Apparently, he is one of the men’s nephews, and they tell happily tell Dick how well his progress has been. It’s contagious, their love for the sport and how connected it is to their family. It reminds Dick of flying with his parents.

There is a huff behind him. "I didn't know they were letting anyone into this rank these days."

The accent is thick, American by way of Gotham. Its owner is a man standing a few spaces behind Dick, staring at him and probably his awful mustache.

He's tall, with arms about as thick as ship cannons and a neck as wide as two of Dick's thighs. His body looks like something you’d see on the cover of a men’s fitness magazine after someone’s gone in with Photoshop. Dude literally looks like he could be under the dictionary definition for the word “gym rat.” He looks as out of place as Dick is amongst the locals, and he’s big enough that many of the men step aside when he steps forward. Obvious deference to a man they consider more than worthy of a challenge.

"You’re in the wrong place, kid," the man says. And Dick, who has spent the last twenty-four hours studying this man's picture, recognizes him immediately. It’s Lawrence Crock, Roman's favorite guard.

Dick glances to one side. Then the other. Points to himself. "Are you talking to me?"

The man raises a brow and looks him over carefully. "You gotta be pretty good if you're in this line," he says.

It's easy to see how men in the past might have only seen Lawrence as nothing more than hired muscle. Dense, not too bright, and only there to serve a function. Nothing but a wall of meat for Roman to hide behind or pick up the fridge when one of his cattle prods rolls beneath it. Dick's done his own bit of research. Lawrence, for all his muscles and his preference to stay silent, is a lot more intelligent than Roman or the international police seem to give him credit for.

It's one of the reasons Dick doesn't just approach him and slap his arm. Easy way to get the tracker on him, no doubt, but Lawrence is more than Roman’s well-trained pitbull. Definitely knows the difference between an accidental brush of someone's hand and someone sneaking a device onto his person.

As it is, Dick is neither stupid nor in any rush to see this mission fail. So, he smiles at Lawrence and shrugs his shoulders.

"Is it illegal to want to challenge myself?"

That doesn’t seem to win him any points. Lawrence is neither impressed by Dick’s charm—which is a first after Tiger—nor his stature. "No, " he says after a long minute. "I would just hate to break the arm of a man that doesn't know what he's doing."

Lawrence turns away and pushes himself through the crowd to sign up, leaving Dick standing there alone, wishing he was able to keep his earpiece in to let Tiger know Lawrence is there. As it stands, he’s only hoping his faux beard manages to stay on properly.

A hand slaps his back. Another one of the men laughs at him when he jumps. "You will be fine, small one. The only thing that may break is your ego."

The others laugh. Dick doesn't.

The event is a lot faster paced than he assumed it would be. A majority of the other men there make it look almost relaxed. Like they could go with just talking to one another, then wrestle, then talk. Here's a little spoiler: they only make it seem that way. Years of practice has made them fluid and used to the pace of the rounds. Dick has only just signed into the event before one of the men, a man named Salam, pushes him over to the corner where he is then thoroughly drenched in warm olive oil and shoved onto the field where his opponent, a large man with a crooked nose, stares down at him.

He could have at least gotten a warning.

"Are you the warm up?" he asks slowly in Turkish. "They have sent me a little English dog to amuse myself, have they?''

"I've always considered myself more of a bird," Dick responds, and the man laughs. Not a good sign.

"Then you should fly away while you can, little bird."

He charges him, and for a second, Dick's suspicion raises almost comically high at how sloppy his charge is. It is too easy to leap over the man's shoulders when he approaches like a raging bull. Dick thinks he must be toying with him. He slides out of the way when a meaty fist swishes through the air besides his head. Sidesteps another grab while the smile quickly slips from the man’s face.

"Hold still, bird, it will be over faster if you stop running away."

That's when Dick realizes the man isn't toying with him. He's gotten better. The man lacks the coordination and the raw strength and cunning Tiger had. Dick easily avoids a tackle that might as well be a football grab with how lazy the man's form is. He uses the man’s own momentum to swing around his neck and force him to the ground with a knee on the small of his back.

Crooked Nose snarls beneath him and goes to rise. Dick shoves an elbow between his shoulder blades and keeps his weight heavy on his back. The man's struggling is absurd, doing nothing but wasting energy. He writhes with no intention, no purpose, just to throw him off. He bucks his hips a few times, but Dick holds firm on his back.

Seconds drag by. Then minutes. Eventually the man's quaking grows weaker, thoroughly exhausted.

"Seems a little odd," Dick had told Tiger after spending the last hour beneath Tiger's knee before he turned him over with a hand on his kisbet. "That it doesn't matter how long you keep your opponent pinned. There’s no 10, 9, 8 thing."

"It has always been so." Tiger slipped off him then helped him up. "Exposing the umbilicalis to the heavens, that has been the rule for hundreds of years."

"Still weird," Dick said, and then Tiger flattened him again without so much as a forewarning.

Now, Dick's kind of liking that rule. If he can keep his opponents pinned beneath him until they tire, then he has a better chance of moving up through the competition until he can reach Lawrence. The trick, however, is turning Crooked Nose around without him slipping away.

And that's what the hand down the pants is for. Dick smiles to himself, then, with little fanfare, takes a hold of Crooked Nose's kisbet and lifts him high enough to slam him back on the ground.

The referee blows the whistle next to him and takes Dick's hand.

Crooked Nose lays on the ground for a moment longer. Dick helps him up. "I underestimated you, little bird," the man says and takes Dick's hand with a smile. Kisses his knuckles reverently and smirks up at him. "I will not make the same mistake again."

Dick grins, red-faced and panting. “Yeah, looking forward to it.”

The crowds around him cheer, clapping their hands as his opponent slips off the field. Dick heads back toward the railing to go sit down when he catches sight of a thick muscular body and braided hair with a white ribbon.

Tiger is across the field with his own opponent nearly equal in height. Tiger locks his arms around the man's waist and lifts him up, like he weighs nothing more than a sack of flour. He takes about five steps, the man wiggling and gripping at Tiger's kisbet. Nothing works. Tiger slams him onto the ground with a thump Dick nearly feels. The man lies on his back while Tiger stands above him, and the referee congratulates him with the blow of a whistle.

"Mahmut is doing well this year," one of the wrestlers says behind him. "He might win this time."

Another man snorts. "We'll see, I heard he spent the last day sick in his apartment. He will tire soon."

"Good luck managing that. He will take the title this year as chief wrestler, I'm sure."

The referee taps Dick's shoulder. "Your next match."

The next man that walks up is even bigger than the last one. This day is going to be a lot longer than he thought.

* * *

Dick is shaking when he leaves his fourth match of the day. The group has been whittled down to only a few men. Dick, luckily, is among them, and so is Lawrence. He only has one more match to go through before he has a chance at Crock, tracking device tucked away in the folds of his own kisbet. The sun beats down on their sweating bodies, hot and humid. He only hopes he can last one more match. At least he doesn’t have to win with Lawrence.

"Your next opponent, Mr. Dinardio."

Dick turns from where he was watching Lawrence, walking onto the grass to wait for his next match. When he sees who it is his stomach tenses. His cock, however, is a different story. Stepping up to his arena is Tiger, hair a mess and breathing heavily, with a smirk on his face.

He’s still the most unfairly handsome man Dick has ever seen.

"This my opponent?" Tiger asks. "I didn't know it was supposed to get easier as time went on."

Dick widens his legs and offers a hand. "Four men have underestimated me today. You will be the fifth."

Tiger tilts his head and shakes his hand. Even after competing for hours, his grip is still certainly strong. Shit. This is going to be difficult.

Without warning, Tiger drops his gaze and looks to the side quite suddenly, smile vanishing. Dick furrows his brows and looks to the left. There in the event tent, where many of the upper class men and women have been watching, stands Roman Sionis, dressed in a black Armani suit with a bored look on his face. Next to him sits Harvey Dent with a lit cigarette between his fingers.

Shit. Shit. This is so out of mission scope.

The referee blows his whistle, and before Dick can prepare himself, Tiger snatches him in a headlock. Absolutely unfair, because Dick gets a face full of hairy chest, and that’s completely distracting. He counters, leaning his body forward to wrap his own arms around Tiger’s shoulders.

"We have to be careful," Tiger says into Dick's ears. "Make your failure believable or else Roman will suspect something."

Oh. _Oh,_ Tiger. Dick laughs lightly. "My failure? What makes you think I’ll be the one forfeiting the match?"

"I need my energy to fight Lawrence. You can't seriously think you're going to beat me, do you?"

"I don't know," Dick says and steps forward, wiping Tiger's feet out from under him. Tiger lands on his stomach, careful to twist in the air so his stomach isn't exposed. Dick lands on top of him. "I've learned a few things over the course of our training session."

"You are hardly an adequate foe," Tiger says. He rallies beneath Dick, forcing himself onto his feet and turning to the side, locking an arm between Dick's legs and hoisting him up. It’s only Dick suddenly grabbing Tiger's belt that prevents him from being thrust onto the grass baring his stomach. "Although your confidence is staggering."

"Thanks." Dick turns around in the hold and slips on top of Tiger's back again. "But it's hardly without cause."

Tiger snarls and yanks Dick back down to the ground. Throws himself over Dick's back and pins him down. "I have beaten you many times, and still you fight me. Why? Do you like wasting my time?"

"No," Dick says, a huff of a laugh forced out of his throat. "I just don't like giving up."

Tiger stares at him, arm shoving Dick's face into the grass. "You are a confusing man, Dick Grayson."

"The best puzzle in the universe," Dick says and pushes himself to his feet, Tiger still on his back. He carries him a few paces, and Tiger grunts.

"Truly." For a few seconds, Dick thinks he actually has a chance.

Oh stupid, Dick. Tiger decides in that moment the match is over.

He grabs Dick’s kisbet with strength Dick has come to know intimately and desire obscenely. Forces him to the ground and turns him over, one hand on his throat and another gripping the soaked top of his kisbet. It’s over in exactly three seconds, fast enough for Dick to catch a breath and then lose it all in one rush. From the pin or Tiger’s manhandling, he doesn’t know—or want to dwell on.

Tiger’s eyes, Dick notices, are very bright. Glistening pools of surprised amber beneath the faux blue of the contact. He longs to graze his finger beneath the skin of his eye, to kiss him deeply. Like he meant to do on the boat.

Then a whistle blows shrill and high in his ear.

Tiger steps back and helps Dick to his feet. Dick takes his hand and raises it to his lips for a light kiss.

"The king prevails again." Dick grins when Tiger grows redder.

"Keep an eye on Roman. There's a chance he knows something’s wrong if he's here."

Dick nods and steps out of the ring, over to where the other losing wrestlers have gathered.

Crooked Nose is there, smiling brightly. He slaps Dick on the back. "The little bird falls to the sleek one. It is not your fault. Birds are no match for tigers."

Dick narrows his eyes. No need to panic yet. "Tigers?"

"The feline grace of your opponent is well known. Mahmut has the skill of a Bengal tiger. Twice as cunning. It is an honor to see someone last so long in a fight with him. You did well, little bird."

The others smile and clap him on the back too. Dick doesn't relax. If the others were able to notice such a strong tell from Tiger, does that mean Roman can as well?

Dick focuses on Tiger. He steps up to stand next to his opponent. Lawrence.

They grasp arms and take a step back. The whistle blows.

Lawrence, when standing close to Dick, was a behemoth. He towers over Tiger, omnipotent like the marble statue of a god. Tiger hardly flinches, glaring up at the man with cool indifference. The whistle blows for the match to begin, but neither move. Sounds of the crowd melt away until there is no sound, save for the heavy breaths of the two men.

Then Lawrence throws his arms forward to lock with Tiger's own. Tiger catches him easily, but the force of skin slamming together echoes around the field. Dick would have crumpled under the lock. Tiger stands there, stiff but flexible. Dick can see his toes dig into the grass before he wrenches Lawrence to the side and attempts to drag him down.

It nearly works. Lawrence, with his height, is forced to bend a knee to avoid tripping over his own legs. It is only brute strength that saves him from Tiger's failed pin.

Crooked Nose grins next to him. "They both have eagle eyes. There is a chance the match will go beyond the time limit."

"How long can a match go?" Dick asks, refusing to take his eyes off the pair. Pressing their foreheads together, Lawrence snarls something under his breath at Tiger. Whatever it is makes Tiger scowl viciously, a rattling hiss leaving his lips.

"Years ago, wrestling matches could last for days. The longest match went on for six days and five nights. It is only when the wrestlers died of exhaustion that a time cap was put on the matches. Thirty minutes, and if no man has won, then it goes into overtime."

"How long does overtime last?"

Crooked Nose thinks. "Hours. With the two of them, we could be looking at that."

Dick returns his focus to Tiger and Lawrence.

Every time Lawrence attempts to lower his hand to grab at Tiger's kisbet, he jerks aside. Using his shorter height to his advantage, Tiger bends further down and out of the way, forcing Lawrence to rebalance or face losing it and becoming available for a grapple. Both men are extraordinarily good, but Tiger has yet to get close enough to place the tracker on him. The shoulders won’t do, it has to be on the back of the thigh. Tiger will have to get in position to win.

Tiger is the first one to make an advancing move. He ducks underneath Lawrence’s arms and slips past the hold Lawrence attempts on his shoulders. Tiger drives his own shoulder into Lawrence’s gut, arms wrapping around his waist like cords. Dick can see the move before Tiger executes it. Lifting him up off his feet and onto the ground.

The men behind him cheer. Dick himself laughs along with them. Tiger could win this. He could win this whole thing if he wanted.

Lawrence turns around on the grass when Tiger throws him across his back. Coiling a hand around Lawrence’s neck, Tiger pushes him to the ground. Another goes to reach past the black leather of the kisbet. There’s a snarl like the growl of a lion and Lawrence rears back. Tiger slides off him like oil in water. Lawrence reaches back, hoisting Tiger over his head and carrying him five paces forward before throwing him to the ground.

Dick curses.

Tiger wraps his arms around Lawrence’s neck again. Lawrence, having learned from his mistake, wraps two massive paws around Tiger's arm and throws him onto his back. Tiger disengages midway through and spins like a cat so he lands on his stomach rather than his back. Lawrence is on him in a second. Throwing one leg over Tiger’s waist and pinning him to the grass, one arm goes around his neck and the other firmly grasps Tiger's kisbet.

It's over before it begins. The referee is blowing his whistle, and just like that, Tiger's both lost his chance to get the tracker onto Lawrence's leg and win with match.

The men around Dick clap and cheer for the other men while Dick curses long and low under his breath. Tiger smiles at Lawrence, but Dick can see the anger burning hotly beneath the faux blue of his eyes. That was their one chance to do things discreetly, to get whatever information they could, and just like that, it's gone.

Dick needs find another way. He could slip into the showers alongside Lawrence and maybe get it on him with a friendly slap on the ass? Boisterous, no-personal-space American? Dick's certainly pretended to do worse things in the name of discretion.

"Good match, wasn't it?"

It's as if the sun is suddenly blotted out, an icy shadow spreading over the Earth with the way the hair on Dick's arms stands up. The scent of dank cement and blood and fear tickles his nose before it gives way to the pungent ones of sweat and grass. Roman Sionis, standing up straight in his expensive black suit, hair slicked back with a lazy smirk on his face looks almost like a normal—admittedly good-looking—man. The only thing peculiar about him is the ugly scar that bisects his lips and nose.

Dick laughs lightly, shoving down the dawning panic in the yawning pit of his stomach. "Yeah, shame. I had a lot of hope for the little guy." He mellows his accent, a light West Bronx. Roman is an old money Manhattanite. His eyes light up.

"Bedford Park?" Roman asks.

"Belmont, actually," Dick corrects with a little smile. He offers his hand. "Freddie Dinardo."

"Roman Sionis." His hands are covered in barely hour-old leather gloves. Dick can still feel the brand-new stiffness beneath his fingers. "I haven't met a lot of Americans with an interest in yağlı güreş before."

"Started getting into it around last year while I was out here on business, participated in a few tournaments and here we are," Dick says, easily reciting Freddie's history from memory. "What about you?"

"I don't care about it," Roman says, like the pompous dickhead he is. "An associate of mine comes out every year to participate. I'm a little disappointed you didn't make it far enough to get a round with him. I'm sure he would have liked having fun with another American."

"Well, there's always next year," Dick says. Does not say that Roman will have to miss the next tournament on account of being locked away in a prison cell for hopefully the rest of his miserable life.

Roman hums and turns toward the field. Tiger is picking his way across the grass toward the showers. "He put up more of a fight than I imagined."

"Who?" Dick says and turns toward the field, looking around a few minutes before he "finds" who Roman is looking at. "Ah, well, he was a lot tougher than I thought in a fight."

"Oh?" Roman says with a little surprise. "I assumed you'd trained together. You knew your way around each other a lot better than you did your other opponents. Same in his case."'

Dick tries not to let his face pale any more than he feels it is. Heart beating frantically in his chest, Dick fights off the growing urge to curl up into a ball and hyperventilate. "Well, he used a lot of the same moves my instructor does," Dick shrugs. "Maybe we've been trained by the same man. But so do a lot of the men. Some of my first partners were incredibly easy to read."

Roman studies him with a little smile, then laughs. "You don't have to pretend, you know."

Oh fuck, here it comes. "Excuse me?"

"I know a queer when I see one." Roman tilts his head. Lazy smirk drawing Dick's eyes to the way his mangled upper lip splits around his front teeth. "If you wanted to fool everyone into thinking you were a real American man, you'd cut off the rest of your long hair, _Ponyboy_. You were practically salivating at the sight of, Mahmut was it, on the field."

Oh, so even Roman noticed that? Nice. _Good one, Grayson. I wonder what they’ll put on your tombstone. “Thirsty to the bitter end?”_ He wonders how Tiger will exact vengeance on him for this critical misstep. Probably strangle him with those delicious arms.

"I—" Dick stutters. "Well, I mean— We don't exactly like to draw attention to ourselves."

"Well, that comes as a surprise." Roman raises an eyebrow. "Call him over. No one has ever given Lawrence that much trouble before."

Dick blanches, but Roman studies him, eyes cruel and critical. His voice breaks when he calls out for Tiger, "Mahmut." He clears his throat and says it louder.

Dick watches Tiger under the spray of the outdoor shower straighten up and glare in Dick's direction. Upon seeing Roman by his side there is no outward reaction but Dick can see the way he stiffens for a fraction of a moment. Dick watches him approach, casually looking between the two of them with a curious expression on his face. Dick would take the time to admire it, and how super adorable it was, if it weren't for the whole “Roman Sionis, literal demon” standing beside him.

"Yes?" Tiger says when he gets close enough. His accent is noticeable, not too thick like someone who doesn't understand English, but enough Dick can see the confused pinch of Roman's eyebrows.

Roman offers his hand. "Roman Sionis. I was talking to your partner."

"Freddie," Tiger says, less of a question and more of a broad statement. He barely looks Dick's way and takes Roman's hand. "Mahmut Bayar."

"I've never seen someone fight Lawrence like that, much less be able to stand with him on equal footing for any length of time." Roman gives a calm little once over, eyes dragging down the curve of Tiger's arms with an almost slimy leer. "Very impressive."

"Thank you," Tiger says. "I work very hard."

"Oh, I'm sure." Roman smiles and glances back at Dick. "How long has he been training?"

A little pointed, probably trying to guess the length of their relationship. An appropriate answer doesn't come to him. He didn't exactly have a default plan for what would happen if Roman came up to him and started asking questions about his "boyfriend" Mahmut. That's the sort of thing that happens in comedy movies, not actual missions that weigh several dozen human lives on the line. Or more, Roman’s been a very busy boy.

"A few years," Tiger cuts in. "He came to me when he was interested in learning about the events. We started talking, then training together."

"And fucking, I assume," Roman says. Tiger colors, eyebrows pinching together. "What? Am I going to have to chastise you the same way I did Freddie?"

"You do not have to speak so rudely." Tiger lifts his chin.

Roman's eyes narrow, little chips of black ice underneath the shadow of his impressive brow. There is a man that Dick hadn't noticed before coming up behind Roman. Big, scar across his eye with a Mohawk styling down the center of his head. He takes half a step forward until Roman holds up his arm. Then Roman smiles.

"I'm sorry," he says. "You're right. I apologize for my bad manners."

Dick tries hard not to glance at the impressive form of the man standing behind Roman's back. "It's nothing."

"No, no," Roman says. "Here I come, exposing your secret out in the open where anyone can hear us. Poor taste really, I know how hard it is to be the odd one out. Allow me to make it up to you."

Dick can think of a million things he'd rather happen than Roman trying to make up his lack of tact. One of them includes getting his fingernails ripped off, minute by minute. Tiger straightens next to him. He's probably thinking the same thing. But they don’t have a lot of options. Without a GPS tracker on Lawrence, this will be their only way to get close to Roman without drawing suspicion.

"Your apology is enough," Tiger says and stands a little closer to Dick. "Everyone makes mistakes."

"Nonsense, it's the least I can do. Besides, it will be nice talking to men who have the balls to stand up for themselves when they've been insulted. Everyone is so spineless these days, it’s rare to meet a proper man." Roman reaches into his jacket and pulls out a little card. "There's a restaurant near here. I have reservations for tonight at eight. Nothing is better than a little apology dinner."

Dick takes the card, sleek black with white cursive that spells _Zazie._ It's one of the most expensive restaurants in Istanbul. "We can't accept this. I doubt we'll even be able to afford the entry fee."

Roman waves his hand. "Money isn't an issue. Try to be there a little early, would you? Give us time to have a drink before we're seated at our table."

There's a roar from behind them as Lawrence throws another opponent. Roman smiles and offers his hand to Dick and Tiger. "Lovely making your acquaintances."

Funny, Dick doesn’t feel the same.

* * *

The view from the Hampton where Tiger is staying isn't exactly like the one at the Swissotel. It's okay, partly because the chairs that stand against the iron railing on the balcony have the nicest cushions Dick has ever sat on. Literally, feels like two hands holding his ass kind of nice. The sun is a burning knot of heat overhead, beating down on the glittering roofs of the ancient mosques that border the edge of the coastline. His hair, still wet from the shower, dries in almost record time, curling against the lines of his forehead while he basks in the heat.

A door creaks open from somewhere inside the room and Dick gets the tail end of a cloud of steam along the line of his neck.

"This is not going to work."

Dick turns around and looks into the hotel room. Tiger, wrapped in nothing but a towel, pushes the dripping strands of hair off his forehead and back along his head. It’s been less than two days and Dick doesn’t know how he managed to go on for so long without seeing Tiger like this.

"So long as we stick to our identities it will."

Dick pointedly ignores the outline of Tiger’s cock against the towel. Standing up, he walks back inside. The living area of the hotel room is small, connected partly to a tiny kitchenette beside the front door. There's a couch with firm cotton seats and an oak coffee table facing a rather large, wall-mounted television. Laid out on the coffee table are a few of Tiger's mission items. The GPS tracking device, a silenced handgun, and a few miscellaneous items that Dick would guess as being discrete monitoring equipment.

"Roman wouldn't know the meaning of good manners if it bit him on his human trafficking ass," Tiger deadpans. "He never operates without an agenda in mind. He might already suspect our identities and that's why he spoke to you."

"Or this might be some elaborate interview process to bring us into the fold. This could be how he finds extra muscle for jobs and his gang. Spots them at wrestling or fighting tournaments and seduces them. Lawrence goes to dozens of these, it would hardly be a surprise if half of Roman's bodyguards were selected from them. Best way to find super fit men and women."

Tiger frowns. "You weren't with Roman for as long as I was. He is a sadistic psychopath that thinks selling children to men and women who would use them until they are nothing by a soulless husk is funny. He doesn't even do it for the money anymore. He has an inheritance that he's been living off of since his parents died. He started this for fun."

Okay and yeah, Dick’s disgusted; most well-adjusted people would be, hearing that. After everything Dick’s been through, however? That’s about as common a trait as a long history of butchering cute little animals.

"Be that as it may, there’s no other way to get close to Roman or his entourage after today. If he wants to make a sales pitch about his gang, we can play it smart. Besides, we aren’t trying to get proof this time. All that matters now is bringing him down." The League has their proof from what Dick managed to tell them after his torture. Tiger no doubt has a long list of men Spyral has to kill from being so long undercover. This is the final stage, no more waiting around to secure evidence.

Tiger continues to be a sourpuss. "He might just be planning to kill us tonight."

"Then we have backup waiting just in case. I've already let Simon and Bruce know about the situation. I'm assuming you've already done the same with Matron." Tiger's frown deepens, which means he’s right. "See, there we go, all according to plan."

"This is hardly according to plan. The wrestling match was supposed to be our way in without entering the line of fire again. We completely failed in that respect."

Dick shrugs. "Improvise, adapt, and overcome. The rules are more like guidelines anyway."

Tiger watches him, a single bead of water falling from his hair and onto his cheek. "Why do you always speak in Disney quotes?"

"Because they're classics. Don't hate on Disney, that's my childhood."

"Then you have a very sad childhood."

"My childhood being sad—which it was not, by the way, it was awesome—is hardly the point right now. We failed to get the device on Lawrence, which was kind of a long shot anyway. At least this way we'll be able to get close enough to set up monitoring equipment and we won't be going in blind like last time."

"I hardly went in blind when I worked under them for a few months. That took careful planning and studying and they still found out who I was. The identity Spyral crafted for me took two months to create and put into motion. Our current aliases took an afternoon. What do you think will happen when Roman finds out Mahmut is currently at home sick in his bed?"

Dick crosses his arms and hopes Tiger can see the disappointment he feels at his lack of imagination.

"Then hope he doesn't Google search our names tonight." Dick sits on the couch and tries hard not to stare at the way water rolls down the cresting lines of Tiger's abs. "There’s only so much the dark web and his men can find out in an hour without links to an intelligence organization."

"That we know of."

"Shut the hell up for a second," Dick says. "We have tonight to get the proper plans in place and then we can disappear and do it the way you want to, okay? This is hardly the worst thing to have happened."

Tiger grunts. "We will see tonight then, won't we?"

"Which is what I've been meaning to ask you." Dick points to Tiger's gun. "You aren't bringing that."

Silence. "Dick Grayson, you are the biggest idiot I have ever met."

"Do you have some secret compartment I don't know about? Even if you could hide that thing super well, Mahmut is a construction worker. He wouldn't be carrying around a gun, especially out to dinner in one of the richest districts in Istanbul. The gun will stay here."

"And if Roman has bought out the restaurant to kill us?” Which is so absurd, because there is no way the owners of Zazie would stand to get poor people blood on their perfect floors. “How will we defend ourselves?"

"I've seen you fight without a weapon," Dick says and remembers, very accurately, his dislocated shoulder on the side of a road in Russia. "It’ll hardly be a problem for you."

"Just because I can do it doesn't mean it's the safest or smartest option."

"Well, I like the ‘not giving them any more reason to not kill us’ option. Which is also the only option we have."

Tiger glares at him for a long moment, lips pursed in an uncomfortably tight line before he sighs. "Fine. I will not bring my gun."

"Thank you," and Dick means that. "I won't let anything happen to you, Tiger."

"It’s not me I’m worried about," Tiger snorts. "This is what I have been trained for. You, on the other hand… Worry doesn't even begin to describe my apprehension."

Dick gasps, pressing against his chest. "Tiger, worried about me?"

Tiger, if not instantly, recognizes his mistake. His cheeks flush brightly and he grumbles to himself in a mixture of Dari and Pashto as he storms into the bedroom. The door slams so loudly it nearly comes off its hinges.

"Neighbors, Tiger! Remember the neighbors!"

* * *

They go over and then re-go over their plan several times that day. They create a list of code phrases and words in case one of them sees something the other doesn't; specific words for “gun,” “plain clothes men,” or something as simple as bad vibes. Neither plan to use the restroom while they are there and they place a small remote-controlled electric shock in their shoes to send the other a warning in case something happens.

This is Dick's bread and butter. It's one of the things he always wanted to do when he became a field agent. It's a little James Bond—okay, a whole lot James Bond—and sure, it's a little selfish that Dick joined the League because he wanted to be like his childhood hero, but you take pride in some of the things you do, right?

Tiger, on the other hand, approaches his work with an grim, methodical dedication. He takes apart the gun, even though he will not bring it, cleans it and puts it back together, repeating the phrases they created under his breath. Dick has seen worse pre-mission rituals—once he saw a man talk to the fish he had in his aquarium. Arthur did stand-up work, but it was so unsettling that Dick was careful of how he acted in front of said fish.

Because apparently that fish told Agent Curry a lot of things.

They both have suits, tailored with a little extra protection beneath the fabric. Nothing too heavy or bulky, so that it’s not outright noticeable, but should help minimize the amount of damage done by a bullet. _It won't stop one,_ Tiger said, _so please don't try getting shot in the heart_.

The device given to him by Simon rests in the secret compartment of his tailored shoes. Although he's trying to minimize the damage Tiger could do by making him leave the gun, there’s no telling what the man can do with a few pieces of silverware. Dick's been told a knife through the eye is a very good killing method. Likewise, Tiger probably knows how to kill a man just as effectively with a chicken breast.

The restaurant is on the coastline surrounded by a shopping center filled with designer boutiques. Simon will be positioned in an alleyway while Tiger's own team—he refuses to say who, but Dick guesses it’s Netz—will be across the street listening in. It's the best they can do in such a short amount of time. Tiger's a little surprised they have time at all.

"Normally, Roman just makes the men get in his car if he wants to speak with them." Dick's also learned that when Tiger says Roman wants to “speak with" someone it, usually means kill. "He most likely didn't want to get the interior of his car covered in oil."

"And blood if that were true," Dick says. "Can't imagine those stains would get out of the leather seats of a Rolls Royce easily."

"Roman actually owns a 2008 Maybach Exelero." Tiger doesn't look up from where he is cleaning his gun. "He thinks the Royce is too easy to acquire now."

"A custom Rolls Royce is well over 400,000 dollars."

"Yes." Tiger sets the gun and metal cleaner down. "He's an asshole."

Dick settles down beside Tiger and watches him carefully dry the barrel of the handgun. "I'm hoping that the reason you're agreeing to go along with my plan is because you have hope that there’s at least some chance of success."

Tiger is quiet for a moment. "While I think your fear of guns is misplaced and detrimental towards your work as an agent, I understand the necessity of not bringing it along on a mission as delicate as this. Whether we succeed or fail depends on factors mostly outside of our control."

"That's a negative way to look at things."

Tiger looks at Dick carefully. "There was a time, not too long ago, when I said that I did not care about you."

Dick remembers that, remembers it quite well actually. “You mean nothing to me,” is what Tiger had said. Dick had been hours out of torture, weak and defenseless in the arms of a man who told him that he couldn’t care less about what happened to him.

The way he looks at Dick now is insanely different. It's intense, fiery; Dick almost feels like he’s on the verge of sweating under the ferocity of his glare. Dick ducks his head and Tiger reaches forward to take his hand.

"I..." Tiger wets his lips and closes his eyes. "I am not allowed to have personal attachments for a reason. Spyral cuts you off from others so there is no risk of emotion being drawn into the matter."

"So you've said." Dick offers a weak smile. "More than once, actually."

"I became the best agent Spyral’s ever seen by following that code. I know the rules, and yet, here you are. Like an infection upon me. I think about you and I worry about you. Do you not understand how that might go for me? How it might go for us? Before, I had been willing to do my work like a machine, no matter the cost. Now..." Tiger trails off. "Now, I do not know."

Dick reaches forward, gently cupping Tiger's chin and lifting it carefully. Tiger's eyebrows are pinched together, eyes frantically darting back and forth across Dick's face, and it's… it's almost a relief to see how utterly human Tiger is beneath his bravado. He isn't a machine, only concerned about a mission. He’s a man with emotions and feelings, and Dick's heart aches for him. Aches that he can’t be allowed to feel and act the same way Dick does. That he can’t have friends or a family or a home, acting as an instrument of silent justice for an organization that values the lives of the many over that of the few.

Dick leans forward. There is no gun in his hands or desperation like last time. He cradles Tiger’s scruffy cheeks and brings their lips together.

Tiger's mouth is warm and tastes of mint. Stubble scrapes along the soft line of Dick's cheeks as he tilts his head to get a better angle. Tiger groans softly and Dick licks into his open mouth, swallowing the throaty gasp of surprise. A hand, calloused, rough, but overwhelmingly gentle, curls through his hair and pulls him closer. Dick moves forward with the arm, over the few remaining inches between them until they’re practically in one another's lap.

Dick parts to catch a breath, his nose drawing a line against Tiger's cheekbone. He feels Tiger shudder slightly beneath his hands as Dick pants wetly into his ear.

"You don't mean nothing," Tiger says. "You mean something."

Dick laughs and pulls back, looking up at Tiger's spit-stained lips and half-flushed cheeks. He looks so out of place, oddly innocent and debauched all at once. Dick wants to kiss him again. But he doesn't.

He leans back and rests against the side of the couch.

"So do you."

* * *

They finish dressing around an hour later. Dick ends up wearing one of Tiger's suits since Dick hasn't returned to the Swissotel since Roman spoke to them on the field. He tries—and fails—not to stare at Tiger too hard while he changes, but it is an extreme test in restraint that he, predictably, fails. They haven't spoken about what is now their second kiss in less than 72 hours. Dick doesn't know if he should.

If only to hold off the inevitable rejection of Tiger saying no. He said it himself, part of his mission is making sure that the world is kept safe from any threat. It's hard to do that when you're babysitting a lover. Besides, Dick's heard Tiger's backstory; there is nothing in the world Tiger would let distract him over fighting injustice. Dick is only a mere speck on the timeline of his life, past and future.

He'll take the small amount of time he still has left, even if it means risking their lives to stop a human trafficker from continuing to operate. If only to enjoy Tiger’s company without having to worry about messy relationship talks like the “what are we” question. Dick will play dumb if it means getting to spend the rest of the mission in each other’s company.

No matter how selfish that makes him.

They order a cab to take them to dinner. Dick goes over Mahmut and Freddie's love story one more time in his head to keep his nerves down. Tiger, on the other hand, stares out the window at the passing faces on the sidewalk. If it weren't for the light intake of breath every now and then, Dick might think Tiger was frozen in his seat.

Maybe he's scared, too. Of what, Dick can hardly guess.

They reach Zazie a little before 7:30. It's a tower that goes high up into the night sky about five or seven stories. The driver drops them off out front where a line of men and women dressed in fresh pressed suits and glittering gowns wait for the elevator up. Tiger and Dick barely make it onto the sidewalk when a man, big enough to make it to the NFL, waves them aside.

"Mr. Sionis, phoned ahead, I'll escort you up." The waiting men and women part like water, shrewd eyes taking in the forms of Dick and Tiger with hot jealousy. Dick is partway relieved by their stares. If so many people notice them, it will be harder for Roman to make them "disappear."

The elevator ride is probably one of the more awkward situations Dick has ever been in. Mostly because the moment the doors close the man, who Dick at this point just mentally calls Mook, turns around and pulls a metal detector out of his vest. "So who's first?"

It takes Mook the entire ride up to pat down the two of them. Mook's extremely thorough too, and whistles a little when his hand curves over Dick’s backside. Roman seems to have a steady employment of pigs on his payroll. When they reach the top floor for the terrace seating of the Zazie, Mook informs them that their table will be ready at eight. In the meantime, he not-so-gently insists they should have a drink in the bar while they wait for Roman to arrive.

The bar area is obnoxiously gaudy. The seats are all rich, dark leather and the counter is granite infused with rivers of liquid gold. Dim burgundy lights illuminate the glass shelves of Bacardi, various liqueurs, and Pinot Noir wines. Though the bar is packed with equally beautiful men and women, two seats are strangely empty at the far end of the counter near the second entrance to the terrace. Dick catches a glimpse of the distant blue glow of the Bosphorus Bridge over the water. If they weren't about to meet with a man that could very well have ordered the kitchen staff to poison their food, Dick might enjoy the entire experience.

Two glasses are placed in front of them, three-olive martinis, the moment they sit down. "Courtesy of Mr. Sionis," the barman says.

Dick would say they were poisoned, but Tiger told him earlier that that’s apparently not Roman’s M.O. Poison is too impersonal, and he prefers to do the honors when it comes to getting rid of particularly pesky targets. Earlier on, Dick might still have his doubts, but he’s far past questioning whether Tiger knows what he's talking about. If he didn't, Dick's sure he'd still be missing his eyesight—if not, of course, dead somewhere in Russia.

He and Tiger take their drinks, sharing a look before Dick clinks his glass against Tiger’s. “To our health,” he says, smirking at Tiger’s eye roll and downing his martini.

Dick has two more cocktails—might as well enjoy Roman’s sudden generosity—before Lawrence finds them.

"Come with me."

The terrace seating for Zazie gives a breathtaking view of the distant Bosphorus Bridge. Blue lights along the cable suspension crisscross the water dozens of feet beneath, joined by a menagerie of white-turned-turquoise from the nearby outlets along the edge of the water. Even with the amount of lights obscuring the night sky, there is still a fantastic view of the stars. The bright red circle of Mars in particular shines brightly down on the candlelit tables across the terrace.

Roman is at a table near the back against the glass railing, sitting in a chair made of leather and ivory wicker. Smoke trails off the lit end of a fat cigar in one gloved hand. The other cradles a crystal tumbler filled halfway with what must be an equally expensive scotch. Roman smiles when Tiger and Dick take their places at the end of the table, backs against the railing.

"Mahmut, Freddie, so glad you could make it." Roman motions to a decorative box with a red velvet interior at the center of the table. Inside stacked neatly are about half a dozen cigars, all Gurkha Black Dragon. Mahmut isn't a smoker, but Freddie is. Dick takes one from the box gently and nods his thanks. There's a guillotine cutter in the center along with several strips of cedar spills.

After cutting off the end of the cigar, Dick lights one of the spills with the candle on the center of the table and rolls it along the end. The first puff of smoke tastes distinctly of wood and bitter orange from the aftertaste of his Mai Tai. He's only glad that the whole point of a cigar is not to inhale or else there would be a lot of coughing going on right now.

"Thank you again," Dick says, "for inviting us. You didn't have to."

Roman shrugs, stirring around the scotch. "I made a bad impression and I wanted to fix it. You understand that, don't you?"

"Of course," Tiger says this time. "The hospitality is generous and we are very appreciative. But we wouldn't want to impose."

"You think I care about that? I have enough disposable income to treat the entire capital to dinner. Relax, have a cigar if you want. I already took the time to order dinner and an appetizer for the lot of us."

Dick nods and brings the cigar down from his lips.

Arguably, chatting with Roman is one of the most boring, blood-pressure-raising events Dick’s ever done in his line of work. Roman regales them with tales of his childhood—both Dick and Tiger know the details. Growing up in Manhattan with two parents that couldn’t care less about their heir-apparent. The fateful year of 1975 when his parents took him on vacation in Whistler, British Columbia where a snowstorm drove in a wild raccoon that tore apart his face and left him with rabies.

It would be sad, Dick supposes, if Roman wasn’t already a snotty kid who killed every kitten his mother gave him before that.

From there, the conversation dips into New York. Where exactly in Belmont did Freddie grow up? Dick says along the river before moving to Hell's Kitchen in Manhattan. They talk about Wall Street when their appetizers show up, roasted slices of duck with an assortment of cheeses and different Mediterranean-inspired sauces. Dick allows himself to finally put down the cigar and orders a glass of wine only for Roman to cut him off.

"He'll have a glass of the Dalmore." Roman sips his own scotch. "Neat."

A glass of Dalmore, if it's as old as Dick assumes it must be—with Roman's especially luxurious tastes—costs nearly as much as a custom, top-of-the-line car.

He tries to reject the glass to order something in the expensive menu that might be a little less cost heavy. Roman only waves off his concerns with a little laugh.

"I told you it was fine, Freddie. Go ahead, enjoy yourself."

Roman addresses Mahmut next while they dine on the appetizers. He asks Tiger where Mahmut went to school, how he got into wrestling and what kind of business he runs. “Mahmut” answers that he never went to school, that his sister is the one who started a business and hired Mahmut to work for her. Working for his family allowed him to pursue a career in oil wrestling, as had been his dream.

"Well, you both look like you take it very seriously." Roman eyes Dick's arms with a little smirk. "Surprised a bunch of queers would even be interested in something that wasn't playing dress-up or talking about theater."

Dick is three drinks too deep to hold his tongue, so Tiger stops him from calling out Roman's terrible behavior by stomping on his foot. Bitterly, he takes another burning drink of his scotch and tries to imagine how nice it will be to finally see Roman behind international prison bars.

"Have you ever thought about working in a private sector? Or going into law enforcement?" Roman asks Tiger. "You certainly have the body type for it."

"I considered it," Tiger answers. "But I’ve never had the option."

"Why not?" Roman asks.

Tiger looks uncomfortable. He glances around the table and pursues his lips. "It was never available to me."

Dick recognizes the start of a trap they spoke of earlier. Roman likes coming off as a philanthropist because he has always been a fantastic manipulator. Playing off your weak points, Roman will come across like he means to help you. He’ll start by offering something small and build up until there is no possibility to leave without fatal consequences. Often by the end, men are either loyal to him or have disappeared without so much as a trace. Tiger’s seen it happen numerous times to multiple men.

"Because they know Roman will come after them, and if not kill them, make their entire family line suffer. For some people, that is just too much to risk," Tiger had told him.

Dick sets his cigar down in the crystal ash tray. Takes a sip of his Dalmore scotch, and forces himself to keep the burning liquid down as it settles uneasily in his stomach alongside the other cocktails and roasted duck. Roman, across the table, looks at Tiger with a sort of subdued glee. He drinks in the form of Tiger’s muscles—which Dick will give him, are very nice—with his beady little eyes.

It’s no surprise when Roman says, “What if you had the opportunity?”

Tiger, Dick realizes, is a fantastic actor. There is a natural curiosity that blooms across his face, studying Roman with fascination but also obvious caution. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I have a very demanding business.” Roman takes a slow drag from the cigar. Exhaling the smoke through his mouth, he grins and motions around to the entire restaurant. “Whether they know it or not, everyone here, in some essence, is a present or future customer of mine. We’re always seeking to expand, always growing, but that growth comes with a price. You understand, right?”

“I do,” Tiger says.

“You’re smart. You fought Lawrence using his own strength against him. You lost, sure, everyone loses sometimes.” Roman pauses, then smiles. “Well, everyone but me.”

“I’m sorry,” Tiger says. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me here.”

“What I’m offering, Mahmut,” Roman leans across the table, focusing the intensity of his glare right at Tiger, “is a job. You come work for me as a bodyguard of sorts. I am always in need of protection. You don’t get this far in life without making a few enemies. I fund your training, have Lawrence mentor you so you can start winning instead of losing. To top it all off, you get an immense salary. Icing on the cake.”

“I...” Tiger wets his lips. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Of course, I can offer your boy a job too,” Roman goes on, glancing at Dick. “I know you won’t want to be far from him. I wouldn’t, either.”

Dick tries not to shudder under the leer Roman gives him. Roman, in return, grins wider. “Not too bad at all.”

He feels rather than sees Tiger’s hand, pressed against his leg under the table, clench into a tight fist. Can see the blood that must be spilling out of the cuts he gives himself from his nails. Above the table, Tiger’s face looks hopeful before it fades into soft resignation. “I don’t know if I could do that. There are a lot of things I have to do for my family here.”

“Why don’t you take a night to consider it?” Roman offers. With a snap of his gloved fingers a woman from the neighboring table, with a high collared gown and golden earrings. leans over to present them with an ebony card. On it in silver lettering is an address, date, and time. “There’s going to be a party celebrating Lawrence’s victory at my villa. Why don’t you stop by and give me your answer then?”

Tiger takes the card and slips it into his pocket with a nod. “Thank you.”

“Please,” Roman says, “the pleasure’s all mine.”

* * *

Dick and Tiger make it home around eleven in the evening. The course of the dinner ran obnoxiously long; unsurprising, since Roman’s picture is probably under the dictionary’s definition of narcissism. They had been served plates of Italian courses with a Turkish twist. Piedmontese agnolotti stuffed with slow-cooked beef and Neapolitan pizza with goat cheese. All the while Roman regaled them of tales about his company, Janus Cosmetics, and how well he salvaged it from the disastrous hands of his late father. Dick hardly bothers to inform Roman that it was _he_ who led the company into the ground in the first place. The only thing that saved it was Roman’s sudden interest when it came to selling men and women.

Of course, that’s along with a disturbingly large amount of throat-burning scotch. Dick’s not a drinker but Freddie was and by the time Roman started talking about cornering the market on his seventh house the entire axis of the Earth felt like it shifted at least five degrees to the left. Tiger’s arm around his waist is deliciously warm and thankfully keeping steady as he walks Dick back up their room.

“I think you were wrong,” Dick says. “He wasn’t trying to kill us. He was trying to hire you.” A pause. “Or maybe bore us to death with his life story.”

Tiger doesn’t debate with him. Instead, he sighs as he helps Dick walk up the strangely vibrating stairs. “You’re drunk.”

Accurate, most certainly. Dick lets his head hang from his shoulders and shoves at Tiger’s chest. “Drunk, not drunk, I’m serious. If Roman was suspicious enough about our identities at the competition or at dinner, he would have killed us then. Not give us another chance to run away. I thought you said Roman prefers things to be quick.”

“I did,” Tiger says, “but this is luring us right into his own arena. If we go, we lose the upper hand we might have had in a public meeting place, like tonight at dinner.”

“But we also have the chance of being cordially invited to where Roman might be publicly displaying his merchandise. Which means we could finally have him arrested and jailed for what he’s done. No more sneaking around and getting away with whatever he wants. There would be no recourse for him. No one to bust him out. That’s if we play it safe.”

A sigh. “I worry about what it says when you make a lot more sense drunk than you do sober.”

Dick smiles up at Tiger. “I think it’s because I’m not worrying about trying to make a pun or reference you’re forced to endure.”

With a shove, Dick falls forward into the hotel room he had no idea Tiger had brought him all the way up to already. Landing with a thud, Dick wheezes and curls on his side. “Ow.”

“There will be a lot more of that if you don’t learn how to control your tongue for tomorrow night.”

“I can control my tongue just fine.” Dick rolls onto his back and looks up at Tiger. Focuses on the soft frown on his face that doesn’t meet eyes that glitter with amusement. It’s hard not to think back on the man he once saw in Cairo, reading what must have been a mission dossier disguised as a magazine at the café. How his eyebrows pinched together when Dick butchered the simplest string of Arabic to get on his nerves.

His throat feels inexplicably and unexplainably dry. “I need some water.”

Tiger nods. “I’ll get some for you. Try and make your way to the bedroom if you can manage.”

Walking to the bedroom quickly becomes a no-go. His feet don’t behave and he can hardly manage to pick himself up off the hotel room floor. So, he crawls along the disgusting carpet—despite all the numerous vacuum cleanings it must go through a month, it’s still gross—until he reaches the door of the bedroom. Tiger laughs roughly above him when he returns.

“You should have told me you can’t handle your alcohol well.”

“I can handle it just fine,” Dick groans into the floor. He’ll think of a better argument when everything stops rocking so hard. “I don’t drink often.”

“That much is obvious. Here.” Tiger bends down beside him and offers him the glass of cool water. “Drink, then I’ll help you get the rest of the way.”

“My hero.”

The water is a great relief. After hours of drinking nothing but scotch, the taste of cigar smoke still heavy on his tongue, it’s nice to finally taste something that is not actively trying to kill him. Damn, he is a lot drunker than he thought.

Tiger waits until he finishes most of the glass and takes it from him, leaving it on the nearby coffee table. He lifts Dick up with his hands under his under his armpits and drags him, though he’s strong enough to carry him, into the bedroom to lie him on the bed.

Dick shuts his eyes and lets himself take in the comfiness level of the standard Hampton hotel bed. “Tomorrow will probably be the last night we have to work together, huh?”

A light breath and the rustle of fabric. “Most likely, yes. I can’t imagine this case will go on for much longer. That is, if you do find what you’re looking for tomorrow night.”

“What _we’re_ looking for,” Dick says. “We can take him in together. Two leads in a buddy cop finally taking in the bad guy after the climax.”

“You are obsessed with fiction. Are you sure you wanted to be a field agent and not some sort of movie star? You have the narcissism for it.”

“Ha, ha, ha. I was a circus performer, remember? From my tragic backstory? Or were you too busy focusing on comforting me that you didn’t hear the words coming out of my mouth?” Dick opens his eyes. Tiger stands at the foot of the bed, tie set aside on the top of the drawer at the end of the room. Slowly, he undoes the buttons on his shirt one by one. Dick swallows, mouth sticky and throat dry. “Well?”

“I heard you, I was just teasing,” Tiger looks up at him, coy smile on his lips as he slips out another button. “After several months of having to deal with you, I think I’m afforded to make a joke or two at your expense.”

“Yeah,” Dick says, voice rough. He wets his lips. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. You do.”

Tiger drops his hands, shirt fully unbuttoned and untucked from the waistband of his pants. He turns to face Dick, chest on display and illuminated by the dim lights of the city peeking through the window blinds. Face colored blue and pink from the glowing neon hue, his smile cuts a stark white curve that makes his eyes glitter. “It’s funny, listening to you agree without putting up a fight about whatever I’m doing.”

“Well, I never really fought you before, either, just...” _Stop staring at his chest, Dick_. “...Just a little devil’s advocate.”

“Hm.” Tiger shrugs out of his shirt, letting it drop to the floor. “Even about the most ridiculous things, I see. Like taking a gun on a mission.”

“I told you I don’t like those,” Dick says.

“I know, but I also reserve the right to wonder why you refuse to seek professional help. This is a part of your duty and you ignore it.”

Dick sighs and closes his eyes. Lying back against the bed, he listens to Tiger wait in silence, maybe for another jab. When nothing comes, Tiger huffs and opens a drawer in the nearby nightstand. “You can take the bed for the night. After how much you drank tonight, you’re going to need it for tomorrow morning.”

Dick thinks about the letter he never wanted to write. About the intelligent and cocky young man Bruce accepted into the League and then considered firing. The boy that Dick had come to love like a little brother, only to have him stolen away a week after they finally buried the hatchet between them.

“His name was Jason.”

There’s silence and then Tiger says, softly, “What?”

“His name was Jason Todd, and he was my former partner.”

Just like below deck on the ship, the words, loosened by alcohol, spill out.

“He was young, smart, and good at what he did. He was planning on becoming more of a child therapist than a field agent after what he saw. He grew up poor to a family that didn’t care about where he went or who he was with. Bruce found him making waves in the Gotham Police Academy. He was suspended after nearly beating a child rapist to death. Bruce thought, with my help, we could make him better. Make him into someone that would be able to do what he needed to do to help others and himself. Boy, did I help.”

The soft padding of footsteps reaches his ears before the bed dips. Dick opens his eyes to see Tiger sitting down on the edge of the bed watching him, eyes soft. He says nothing so Dick, already having opened his mouth, spills out a confession that has been sitting in the back of his mind for four years.

“We were put on a case together, hunting down a serial bomber and murderer by the name of Jack Napier. It was supposed to be a cut and dry case. Our supervisor found a paper trail of specific chemicals that went into making his gas bombs all purchased by a man who fit the description. The trail went from Miami, to Reno, to Topeka, all the way back to Gotham. Right smack dab in the middle of where Jason was born. The last receipt came from a Home Depot that was a block away from a children’s orphanage. Jason was furious.”

He can still remember the snarl on Jason’s face when Tim handed them the data. _I’m going to kill that son of a bitch_ , he’d said. Dick told him to settle down. This is exactly what Napier wanted. To make them angry, to make them slip up, especially up-and-coming detective star Jason. Napier was obsessive and liked to play games with agents he “liked.” Jason was a new toy to him.

Dick should have watched him more carefully. Should have worked harder alongside him instead of going home to stew over his own case notes alone. Maybe Jason would have come to him instead of thinking he was the only one who cared about the fate of Gotham’s disenfranchised children.

A few weeks later, Jason received a letter in the mail, an anonymous tip where Napier had been hiding. It was obviously a trap, but Jason, too upset and eager to put an end to the killing, went. He went alone because he thought no one else cared enough.

“Napier was waiting for him. Spent the next week mutilating him in ways that make Roman look nice. When I found him I… I didn’t even know it was him, his face, Tiger, there was nothing left of it.” It had been Jason’s red jacket, stained a rusty brown from old blood and vomit, that told Dick who it was. “We told his parents that he’d died in an explosion, so the League could be in charge of the medical decision-making. In reality he’s been in a coma for the last four years.”

“Dick,” Tiger says, and his voice is careful and so full of concern it brings tears, hot and painful, to Dick’s eyes.

“I,” Dick wheezes out, voice a shaky and delicate whisper. “I caught a break. Someone recognized Jack from his wanted picture outside of a metro entrance and I found him. I found him and chased him for miles into an abandoned railway station. I had to take him in. I had to take him in so we could question him and find out where he was planning to put the next bomb. I was reaching for my belt, for the cuffs, and then he looked at me.”

“ _I recognize you_ ,” Napier said with a bright grin on that demented little face of his. _“I know you from the papers, yes! You’re little Jaybird’s partner, aren’t you? What did he say your name was? Dixon? Dillon? Oh, Dick Grayson! Yes, yes. I think we both were a little upset when you were a no-show, he was quite the crybaby about it.”_

“Before I knew it the gun was in my hand, and I shot him.”

The smell of gunsmoke; the disappearing cloud of red mist as Napier, face still drawn in that smile, fell to his knees. Dick didn’t even realize he had shot him until blood blossomed on Napier’s shirt like the opening petals of a rose. Dripping down his shirt in steady streams of red, Dick dropped the gun to the floor as Napier stared at him with almost baffled satisfaction.

“ _What’s the matter, little bird?_ ” Napier cooed, those vivid, green eyes burning holes into his very soul. _“Cat got your tongue?”_

Emergency services were on scene within the half hour. Dick, despite his training and Bruce on the line, could do little to stop what he had started. Jack Napier, The Joker, was dead within seven minutes. His last breath was spent wheezing out a laugh as Dick begged the paramedics to get there faster.

Tiger sits silently at the edge of the bed, mouth set in a thin line. He doesn’t say anything and his face betrays nothing. He watches Dick attentively and that makes Dick curl further in on himself.

“It wasn’t hard to find Napier’s hideout after that. Holed up a ramshackled old apartment building with front row seats of the building across the bay where he had left Jason for us to find. The walls were a litany of jumbled ramblings that not even Bruce could make out. Two days later, Napier’s bombs he had planted on a subway train went off. There was no way to tell what he was planning from his notes, he left nothing behind.”

Dick takes in a shuddering breath. Remembers the faces of the mothers, fathers, children, friends and family that had attended the funeral of those who died. All those who could have been saved if he just kept Napier alive long enough for Bruce to take him in.

Mostly he remembers Jason’s secret little smiles.

“I killed everyone on that subway. It’s my fault they’re dead. If I hadn’t… If I kept my anger in check for just a little longer, they would be alive. Instead, they died needlessly from a bomb planted by a dead man.”

“No.”

Tiger’s voice startles him. Leaning over, Tiger glares at him, amber eyes alight and mouth curled back in a snarl. “The actions of a man possessed by mania are not your fault.”

“If Jack Napier was still alive, Bruce could have worked out where the bombs were. I sentenced those people to _die._ ”

Ducking his head, Tiger swears, but when he looks up his face is soft, all traces of anger gone. He takes Dick’s cheek in his hand, brushing his thumb against the skin and sighs. “You do not deserve to punish yourself for the death of a man that the world needed dead.”

“That’s not what the Justice League does,” Dick says. “That is not what I do. I believe in letting the living victims and the families of the deceased decide the punishment of the person who stole from them. I have no say in the matter.”

“Jack Napier stole Jason from you. I think that gives you as much a say as it would anyone else.” Tiger lies down beside him. Reaches over and gently takes Dick’s hand in his own. “The world is unfair. Crimes and evil are as senseless as good and kindness are selfless. We cannot control the evil man is capable of, no matter how hard we try. Your redemption should not be associated with not being able to stop an atrocity that might still have happened had you not killed Napier.”

Tiger pauses and then he says, “I told you once that there are men like me who have lost our humanity because of the men we have killed. You, Dick Grayson, have never and could never be one of those men. I think, were there any debt you had left to pay for what happened years ago, it has already been settled. If not, I would willingly take the burden from you myself.”

The lump in Dick’s throat is so large it is almost impossible to swallow. He huffs a breath, voice a trembling, delicate thing. “Keep talking like that, Tony, and I’m going to get ideas that you’re starting to like me.”

A rumbling laugh in Dick’s ear makes him shiver. “I think I was lost the moment you purposefully butchered your Arabic pronunciation when you asked me for directions in Cairo, just to see the look on my face.”

There is silence. Tiger traces the skin over Dick’s knuckles with his thumb, interlacing their fingers. Seconds pass, then minutes and what feels like hours as the neon lights eventually fade away, leaving the city dark save for the dappled light of the moon peeking through the blinds. Dick remains awake and Tiger beside him, thumb stroking back and forth across the skin of his hand.

"The woman you loved," Dick says when he is on the verge of sleep, eyes too heavy to keep open any longer. "The one that you had to kill. What was her name?"

He asks it without the expectation of an answer, and in the silence of the hotel room, unconsciousness tugs at him ever harder as he listens to Tiger's steady heartbeat.

"Alia," Tiger says. "Her name was Alia."

Dick sleeps.

* * *

When Dick’s breath evens out and he finally passes out, Tiger sits up. He slips his hand from Dick’s and walks into the living room where the metal briefcase containing his gun resides. It opens easily when Tiger uses his thumb on the biometric lock. It comes out of the packing without any fuss, silver handle glinting in the dark of the living room.

It takes seconds to dismantle it into small, concealable parts. It’s become habit to Tiger now, as commonplace in his routine as brushing his teeth or making the bed. Laying them out on the coffee table like the tools to an assembly line, Tiger looks at them, his eyes glaring at the curve of the muzzle and grip. In the reflection is the torn open package of Flunitrazepam sitting on the counter with two little white tablets missing.

“I am sorry, Dick.”

It takes less than five minutes to hide the portions of the gun, the largest pieces in his dress shoes. The smallest pieces, on the other hand, including the pins and springs, are placed within the metal of his watch, tie clip, and lapel pin. The ammunition itself is kept within the dismantled chamber. He only needs several shots to take care of Roman.

And, should it come to it, Dick as well.

Once it is done, he locks up the case and falls asleep on the couch. Unwilling to sleep beside Dick for even one last night together, the reprehensible action of his calculated betrayal weighing heavily on his mind.

* * *

For a second, Dick thinks he’s dead.

His body is a mess of aches and pains that he didn’t even know could hurt so powerfully. Opening his eyes blinds him, the light in the room—and when in the world did it get so bright?—awakens an ache in the back of his mind that feels as if someone had been hammering away with an icepick at his skull all night. His stomach? Shit, Dick doesn't even want to think about that.

Speaking is about as successful as trying to waterski while carrying a plate of stacked jello. Dick means to say, "Oh my god it feels like I am on my deathbed, Tiger call a doctor," but it comes out slurred and with considerably more, "Oh god I'm going to throw up" between every other letter. Given the chance, Dick would fall back asleep and hopefully wake up feeling like he wasn't trying to kick open the reaper’s front door.

It’s like a trip down memory lane in the worst possible way, except this time, Dick is purposefully blinding himself by keeping his eyes shut and trying to ignore everything. That is the last time he ever drinks anything other than water. Or milk in cereal.

"Tiger," Dick groans and reaches out beside him. The bed around him is cool to the touch. Tiger might have gotten up hours ago. Fingers crossed he's making something for breakfast, because Dick's stomach can't decide on whether to be hungry or on the verge of spewing out last night's duck appetizers. God, he can't even remember the mains, but assumes they'll make a pleasant addition to the toilet bowl.

Carefully opening his eyes, Dick eases himself into a sitting position, fighting nausea and a terrible case of vertigo—or are they both synonymous? It feels like someone's taken out his brain and stuffed it full of cotton. Is this really all from the scotch? 

It takes an embarrassingly long amount of time to stable himself, and for that Dick’s glad Tiger’s shuffling around the kitchen lest he wanted a litany of “Really, hungover, Grayson?” before Tiger did something equally insidious. Like pushing him down the stairs as a “Spyral cure for hangovers.” Trudging to the bathroom takes an equally long amount of time. By the time he makes it there, the room has stopped spinning a considerable amount, and he only has to hold onto the sink counter to fight off the wave of sick rather than remain upright.

“Never again,” Dick says and then he turns to the toilet and throws up. The action repeats several times until there is, safe to say, nothing in Dick’s stomach more than stubborn acid. Washing his mouth out with water makes him feel a little better. Shoving his head under the faucet is even better.

Eyes pink from unshed tears, mouth covered in a light sheen of spit and water from the sink, hair dripping wet, Dick realizes that Tiger hasn’t come to check on him. There’s noise coming from the main room, Dick can make that out at least, but Tiger hasn’t barged in yet to pick on him. Maybe he’s actually being a decent man for once?

Stepping out of the bedroom, Dick peeks into the living room to face the music, only to see that Tiger is not there. The room is surprisingly bare, devoid of anything Tiger had set out the night before. No suit pants, no gun case, no dirty dishes, nothing.

Scratch that, save for one maid, who looks irritated and accustatory.

Dick looks at the maid, then back to the bedroom. “I,” he says in English and then corrects in Turkish, “Excuse me one second.”

Moving back into the bedroom, Dick finds only his suit from the night before folded neatly on the ground, along with the toothbrush he bought from the corner store. Besides that, there is nothing else. Everything is gone.

Pacing quickly into the living room where the maid still waits, now completely annoyed that she cannot do her job—which Dick gets because he’s not been allowed to do his job—he looks at the clock. It reads 4 PM. As in 4 in the evening. As in Dick has slept the entire day away in the hotel room, dead to the world, while Tiger was out doing who knows what.

He doesn’t know how he did it. Dick should have woken up hours ago, even if the maids took their time to get to the room. He— There’s no way.

The knowledge comes to him, thinking about how Roman wouldn’t drug them because it was impersonal. The fact that Tiger was, himself, a total manipulator. The bastard drugged the water he gave him before bed. _Like an asshole._

“Oh, Tiger,” Dick says. “I thought we’d come a long way from you being a total irredeemable prick.”

Roman’s villa is about an hour’s drive away with no traffic. The party starts around eight in the evening. Dick will have less than three hours to drive all the way to Roman’s party to make sure he can snoop around, get evidence, and stop Tiger from enacting his own plan. Which means he’s going to kill Roman. Shit. That is not what Dick had in mind.

“Sir,” the maid says. “The next guests will be here in less than an hour. I need to clean. Can you please leave?"

Dick takes in his current state of dress. Bed hair, a little remnant of puke on the collar of his white shirt, pants barely half on. Absolutely in no condition to be going to a party.

_You’ve pulled off dead and handsome before. You can do this, Dick._

“Ok,” he tells the maid. “Ok, I’ll leave, but can I brush my teeth first?”

She takes one look at him, roll her eyes and walks back to her cart muttering about stupid men the whole way there.

On that, little lady, they can agree.

* * *

 “It was probably roofies,” Simon says over his earpiece. “That’s the only thing I can think of that would knock you out without setting off any alarms. Classic skeevy dude in a club move. You said he was your friend?”

Dick pinches the bridge of his nose before he puts his hands back on the wheel. “Tiger is a professional, he wanted to make sure he could keep me out of the way. It was the fastest and easiest way to do it. So, congrats to him on being a total douche. I’ll make sure to punch him in the jaw the next time I see him.”

“I want you to know that getting the blueprints for Roman’s house in Silivri will take hours, if we can even find any. It will take even longer to get a team together and ship them out without alerting Roman or Spyral. You are literally on your own.”

“Like always,” Dick says. He’s stuck behind at least three semi trucks. Joy.

Running out of the hotel less than a half an hour ago, he’s barely had enough time to calm his frantic mind. The taste of vomit, despite brushing his teeth, still sits on the back of his tongue, and the nausea he woke up with that morning has yet to fade entirely. The hotel wanted him out of the building, he’d overstayed his welcome by at least seven hours, and Dick stuffed what he could into his bag before he left in a rush.

He changed in a gas station bathroom off the main highway road. It was cramped, filthy, and there was someone in the stall next to him that was either having a bad day with his lower intestine or had died over a week ago. He bought scissors and black dye from the bored attendant and gave himself a hack job in the bathroom sink. At least he looks somewhat like himself, which means he’ll be able to get in without ruining whatever bullshit story Tiger gave Roman about Freddie’s absence.

Simon is a constant buzz in his ear. “The last time you went in alone, may I remind you, led to you getting captured and tortured by Roman.”

“Except this time it won’t be in a warehouse sector in Russia. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.” Dick can hear Simon roll his eyes over the phone. “This time it will be on Roman’s home turf, surrounded by all of his most trusted men. I don’t know if you’re stupid, Dick, or you just wake up and think about the best way to give someone heart problems.”

“You forgot to mention that I am still partially drunk and hungover.” Thank God the car the League sent him had a self-driving function or else this would be a lot more dangerous than it already is. “I work best when I improvise.”

“I think you work the best when you’re running right into a death trap. Tiger works for a rival agency that thinks killing people will solve everyone’s problems. He already drugged you to keep you out of the way; do you have any idea on what he might do when he sees you show up at Roman’s party?”

“Unless he wants to alert Roman of his plan, he won’t try anything. I doubt he’ll be showing up at the villa with the intent to kill everyone inside. Tiger’s not stupid.” At least, Dick hopes he isn’t going to kill everyone just to assassinate Roman.

“And neither are you,” Simon says. “So will you stop acting like it?”

“Just make sure to get a team ready, okay? Thanks.”

“I will,” Simon says. “Don’t forget to use the emitter when you get within range of Tiger. If he kills Roman, we’re fucked.”

“Don’t worry,” Dick promises. “I haven’t.”

* * *

Roman’s villa is a massive, sprawling estate that overlooks the coastline of the sea and the little town below it in Silivri. It is a multi-level mansion with a half mile long private driveway up a sheer, man-made cliff-face, decorated with Greek and Roman marble statues. If anything, it is the literal epitome of West European culture standing above the traditional Turkish architecture of the town below it. As if Dick needed another reason to hate Roman.

Apparently a showboating white man is included on that list of “Why in the world are evil men like this?”

Dick shows up a little past eight. The sky is dark, but the sheer number of lights that originate from Roman’s property manages to chase away whatever stars might have been in the sky. There is a fountain carved in the image of a young man with curly hair on his knees holding a pail above his head. The face of the boy is demure, soft cheeks with a bashful coy smile. It oozes Roman’s own nasty proclivities for the young and naive. If anything, it shows how overly confident Roman is about his status, he’s made a monument to taunt him with. If Dick can even call these atrocious statues art pieces.

Tiger, bastard that he is, took the invitation card Roman gave them the night before. So, he’s got to find another way that isn’t the front door. No problem. The mansion itself has acres of private land that stretch around the house, Dick just needs to make sure he doesn’t get lost.

Taking a sudden detour before he gets to the front entrance, Dick slips through the decorative rose bushes that line the sides of the house. The thorns catch and tear at the borrowed suit as he slips into the garden that surrounds the property. And because life is never easy, there are also patrolling guards with flashlights that walk around the small pathways in the garden. Nice.

Dick keeps to the decorative trees that line the gravel walkways, stopping whenever one of the men get too close. By the time he’s made it to the back of the house, where the party opens outside along the back lawn around a fire pit, it’s been about ten minutes. He’s also sweating bullets.

He slips into the chatting men and women on the back porch easily. Roman is hosting a rather large party and there are several people here that Dick recognizes. They are all rich men and women, some of whom he’s knows to be charity drectors and government officials. The type of people that should not be rubbing elbows with Roman Sionis. Roman was right, he has a lot of the world eating out of his hand.

The party itself is ostentatiously ritzy. Men and women wear flowing gowns and bespoke suits, gold watches and diamond necklaces glittering against their skin under the lights. An outsider would assume the party was some sort of gala or something equally gaudy with the way the attendees are dressed—including the dreadful decor.

Contrastly, the waiters that walk around certainly reflect Roman’s tastes.

They’re practically nude. Men and women dressed in leather harnesses with gold and silver ball gags in their mouths. Sterling silver or white gold nipple piercings and bounce against their skin, chains dropping down to cock or clit piercings proudly on display.

_Stay classy, Roman, stay classy._

It is too easy, just like it was to slip onto the boats at Knyazev’s part, to join the men and women enjoying the night air. Roman has an extensive garden that goes far beyond the house over his many acres of land. No reason why he wasn’t just enjoying a look around the property before he decided to rejoin the festivities. Besides, most of them are too distracted with their own conversation to care if they see him around the house or not.

A couple is standing near the back patio when Dick slips by.

“Do you have any idea when the bidding is supposed to start?” the woman asks. Her hair is a gorgeous shade of red, and she wears a sheer green dress that shines with dozens of emeralds, coiling around her body like vines. “I know that little slime ball Oswald is going to make a bet for the more attractive men right off the bat."

“A little past nine if all goes well. Roman’s getting a few more of them… ready.” Her companion is an older man, bald with circular glasses that sit low on his nose. “You know how he is.”

The woman scoffs. “Some of us want to get a move on, does he ever stop working?"

“Not that I know of.” The man smiles, and it’s worse than Roman’s. “Do you want another drink, Pamela? To tide you over until then?”

“No,” the woman, Pamela, says. “I just want to make sure that I have a say in who I get first. Honestly, if I had known Oswald was going to be here, I’d have made arrangements beforehand.”

“I don’t think he would have allowed it,” the man says. “You know Roman loves competition.”

“Of course he does.” The woman rolls her eyes. “Sadist.”

And doesn’t that just put a nice little bow on the evening? Catching Roman and several co-conspirators in the act of purchasing enslaved men and women. He’ll just have to get a picture, find Tiger and keep Roman alive long enough for Simon’s team to reach him.

So easy, in theory.

Dick slips past groups of older men and women, hands full of crystal glasses—probably filled to the brim with that disgusting scotch Dick is still partially drunk on—and steps inside.

The house is full. Literally stuffed to the gills with a number of people. Men and women talking in the living area, the dining area around the maroon covered table where a young girl, blindfolded and naked is suspended over it. There are more of them, these set pieces, girls and boys who look to be in their late teens kneeling around the groups holding drinking glasses high above their heads. Dick doesn’t miss the glassy look in their eyes or their downturned gazes. They’re probably on a mixture of drugs to keep them docile and passive while susceptible to orders. It’s hard not to miss the ugly ankle monitors attached to every single slave.

Which is what they are. If Dick hadn’t already puked his guts out, he might do it some more at the sight.

A staircase near the center of the living area leads up to an open second floor where an enormous ballroom is. A marble floor covered in the biggest Persian rug Dick’s ever seen. There’s dark curtains hanging halfway down the room, keeping the latter part from view. Several men in collars are setting up dozens of plush chairs. This must be where the auction will take place.

Still no sign of Tiger or Roman. Not good.

Exploring the few closed-door rooms on the second floor reveal nothing but guest bedrooms. All identical with shades of red, black, and white. A queen-sized bed and a dresser at the other end of the room with a single potted orchid on the top center, and a little clipboard on the bed. The clipboard has a paper that asks for a person’s name, the name of the “product,” the “events” they have planned for the night, and their signature. _Ah._ Kind enough to let them test out the merchandise too.

What a nice man you are, Mr. Sionis.

Dick finds the level to the second set of stairs, but it’s blocked off by a man in a suit at least four sizes too small. He’s reading a _Playboy_ magazine and doesn’t bother looking up when Dick starts walking over.

“You lost?” the man says.

Dick hesitates. Glances past the man and sees how tight the corridor is behind him. That’s probably the only way he’s going to get to the third floor. “No, I was just looking for Roman.”

“He’ll be down in a second, he’s busy right now. Enjoy your evening downstairs with the rest of the party, sir."

Dick frowns and turns away. Okay, not as easy as he thought. But when has his life been? Glad he can add interrupting the sale of human lives to the list of fond memories.

But he isn’t stupid, and he knows the best thing he can do right now is disguise himself. Which means getting a lot grosser than he thought he would have to.

“Ugh,” Dick says. “The things I do for you, Tiger.”

Going back downstairs, he weaves his way through the crowds of men and women into the kitchen. The kitchen is about as big as the living room, with several men in chef-white uniforms fussing over frying pans simmering with a mixture of juicy cuts of meat and caramelizing vegetables. Closer to the door Dick happens to poke his head in, is a line of men in those eye-catching leather outfits.

Easy.

“Excuse me,” he calls out to one of the waiters. “I’m sorry, there’s been a mess. Could I steal one of you to clean it up?”

One of the waiters steps forward, eyes half-lidded and a dull grey, ready to follow. Dick takes his hand and directs him out past the men and women in the party, up the stairs to the second-floor bedroom. No one spares them a second glance.  
“Thanks for following me all this way,” Dick says and opens the door. “I just didn’t know how to take care of this.”

The moment the man is through the door, Dick throws his arms around his neck. He kicks the door shut with his foot. “Listen, I’m so sorry about this.”

The man fights, though he shouts nothing, struggling in Dick’s hold. Dick keeps him there tightly, choking him until his struggles grow weaker and weaker, until he finally slumps back in Dick’s arms.

“I’m really sorry,” he says to the man’s unconscious body.

Dragging the man into the bathroom attached to the bedroom, he takes off his own clothes and shreds them, tying the slave up with the remaining pieces. Then, taking the slave’s leather harness and leather booty shorts—that of course have a slit that shows off his completely limp cock—he slips them on and clips the straps around his chest.

Taking the gag from the man’s mouth and exchanging it with a strip of cloth, Dick chokes at the amount of drool. “Gross.”

Wiping off the saliva as best he can, Dick slips the gag into his mouth and locks it behind his head. Everything in place, save for the chains that he can’t attach to his nipples and cock, Dick examines himself in the mirror. He looks like a john’s wet dream. Shit, he _is_ a john’s wet dream. Fuck this, after all this he’s asking for a transfer to desk work. This is enough fun to last a lifetime.

Here’s the problem: the waiters don’t wear shoes. So where does he hide the transmitter? The leather outfit is certainly far too revealing to tuck anything into. Dick weighs his options—including thinking about and then dismissing putting it between his asscheeks—but comes to the same conclusion. He won’t be able to take it with him.

“Awful idea,” Dick says to the waiter on the floor. “Hold this.” He slips the emitter into the still-intact pocket wrapped around the man’s legs.

Dick shuts the door behind him and heads back downstairs to the kitchen, gets in line behind the rest of the waiters and takes the next few minutes learning to mimic their expressionless glances. It’s relatively easy with how out of sorts he is from the drugging and hangover. Slowly, he works his way to the front of the line, and when he gets there, he doesn’t wait for the sous-chef to hand him a plate. He simply takes a silver platter and steps aside to the walk-in cellar at the back of the kitchen.

He finds a bottle of Dalmore and pours it into some crystal glasses. Done and done. No one in the kitchen looks twice at him. The cooks are too busy shouting demands at waiters, who are so drugged up they just roll their eyes when Dick nearly bumps into one on the way out.

It takes a total of five minutes to cross the room, swiftly taking care of guests’ demands along the way. Eventually, after tense moments ducking his head and avoiding eye contact, he makes it to the entrance to the second staircase.

This time the bouncer looks up from his magazine, eyes raking over Dick’s face. “Hey, wait.”

Oh shit, this is it; this is when his plan goes to hell. The man steps away from the stairwell, getting nice and close while Dick weighs the option of just sprinting up the steps. “When did Roman find you, gorgeous?”

Dick doesn’t say anything, wouldn’t if he could. Too busy choking on his Adam’s apple as the bouncer takes one of the drinks from the silver tray. “I know you’re doped up as fuck right now, but when you come back, why don’t you and I pop off to the bathroom for a little after-dinner dessert? I’ll even take the gag off if you beg real nice."

The bouncer stands aside, eyeing Dick’s ass—he can practically _feel it_ —as he scurries up the stairs.

The third floor is a little more normal, as in there’s no gigantic ballroom at the end. There are several doors that lead to different bedrooms, the master's at one end of the initial hallway. The door is open, a king-size bed made perfectly in the back where a boy with black hair and a red collar kneels on the floor. He is blinded by a scarf of red silk around his eyes, a spider gag forcing his lips apart. Dick guesses that must be Roman’s personal slave. The thought has him scrunching his nose in disgust that Roman would force a boy, _a boy,_ to stay waiting for him like a lovesick dog.

Turning left at the end of the hallway leads to a wide room with a glass portioned ceiling. There are a number of men, a few women too, talking and chatting with one another. Some of those slaves with the ankle monitors kneel on all fours at their feet. Human chairs for the company to sit on. Dick is hesitant in his walk. It’ll be a lot harder to slip into this crowd if need be, all he needs to do is find Tiger—

“Finally,” Roman’s voice says near his right. “It’s about time. You’ll have to be punished for that."

Turning around, Dick spies Roman sitting in a leather chair, a cigar lit and in hand. He is wearing a bright white suit, white tie, and a black undershirt. Beside him sits another man, slicked back brown hair with burn scars covering half his face. Harvey Dent, Roman’s scumbag lawyer.

In the remaining chair, looking profoundly distressed, is Tiger.

It only takes a second for surprise then guilt to pass over Tiger’s face before he schools it back into neutrality. Dick is suddenly glad he has a gag so no one can see him scowl. Oh, yeah, found you, you bastard.

Dick walks over to the group, keeping his eyes downcast and his teeth sinking into the gag. He lowers onto his knees just as he had seen the other waiters doing and offers them the tray. Roman takes his drink first and sips it.

“That’s the problem with them, Dent,” Roman says. “Train them all you want, and they still find ways to disappoint you.” A cough. “I told you to bring it neat, not straight up.”

Roman overturns the glass above Dick, and Dick jolts slightly from the shock of the cold booze running down his hair. He presses his chin to his chest so none of the men can see the resulting sneer. He’s only been there for a few seconds, and already, he wants to throw Roman out the window. Or from the roof.

Dent clicks his tongue and takes a drink from the tray with a little sigh. “That’s not your problem, it’s the men you have training them. If another one gets sent back for bad behavior, you’re going to start having a problem with your reputation."

Roman huffs and shakes his head. Then he turns to Tiger and motions at Dick. “You see what I’m talking about? Why I need a guy like you with the discipline to help me break these brats? I swear to God, you give them an inch and they take the whole damn mile.”

“I do.” Tiger swallows. “I see what you mean now.”

Roman shakes his head and sighs. “It’s a shame your boyfriend couldn’t be here,” he goes on. “What did you say kept him away again?”

“He was ill from drinking,” Tiger says in that thickly accented voice. “He’s been trying to be better for me. He has a problem with overdoing it.”

_Oh, and I roofied him last night, too. That’s another reason._

“He did strike me as a little greedy last night, what with all the drinks he had.” What an absolute prick. Roman was the one who kept ordering him drinks whenever his glass got low. Then scolded Freddie for wasting good scotch. “Doesn’t matter. Now that he’s gone, I can expect you to answer honestly when I ask this.” Roman smirks. “What do you think about the product?”

Tiger plays off his discomfort by wiping his mouth, but Dick can hear the edge in his words. “Well, they’re all very attractive. I’m not surprised you have so many buyers—”

“No,” Roman interrupts. “I don’t mean the product in general. I mean this boy right here.” A polished black shoe finds its way under Dick’s chin. It lifts up and Dick’s breath catches in his throat behind the gag. Startled, it takes him a second too long to force his gaze back down, and Roman gets a good look at his wide, blue eyes.

“Do you see that? The way he fights me? What do you think of him? Actually, better yet… If you’re going to be a part of my group, tell me what you would do to him.”

“Excuse me?” Tiger says.

“Listen, Mahmut, I get it, you're a one-man guy. But there’s certainly nothing wrong with my boy, is there? Look at that face, huh? Those pretty blue eyes and those dick-suckin' lips. He’d fetch a fine price on the market, don’t you think?”

Tiger opens and closes his mouth. “I...” He looks down at Dick, then back to Roman. “I suppose so."

“Aw, look at him, Harv. He’s shy.”

Both men laugh. Dick fights the urge to squirm. “Come on, Mahmut, baby, you gotta show so backbone! You want to be a smart businessman, right? Be able to provide for your family and compete without fretting over bills, yeah?"

Dick can hear the underlying threat in those words. “ _Do what I want or I’ll make your life a living hell. Don’t think I will? Try me_.” It makes Dick’s stomach knot. The thought that dozens and dozens of men and women have been given the same speech. The same threat by a man they thought was giving them an actual chance. He’s really the worst kind of scum there is.

Tiger closes his mouth and then says, very carefully, “I suppose I see what you mean.” He keeps playing that shy role, and Dick wonders if that’s part of the character or if it’s because of his surprised to see Dick there at all. Just wait until Dick gets his hands on him. He’ll ive him something to really be nervous about.

“A beating is in order, I think. To teach him what he did wrong." _Bitch._

“Nice instincts, Mahmut, but we don’t want to leave any marks. Clients hate them. Real picky, these fucks. Spankings usually work out the best. Especially with your hand. It’s painful and humiliating for ‘em, and you don’t need to worry about pissing off the customer, either.”

Roman looks down at Dick with a little, impish grin. “And I bet you need a few spankings, don’t you, honey?”

Ugh, gag. But Dick remains silent.

“Tell you what,” Roman says. “I need to get ready for the auction. Why don’t you take our little brat here to one of the rooms, and then meet me before we get started? Think of it like an interview, see if we’ll be able to do this long term. Then you can run home to your alcoholic boytoy.”

Tiger looks like he’s on the verge of saying no, refusing Roman’s offer by spitting on his hand. Possibly killing him too. Dick hopes he tries just so he can get up and give Tiger the punch in the face he so desperately needs.

“I don’t know if—” Tiger says.

“You want to work for me, I want to make sure you aren’t going to pussy out at the first drop of blood, because believe me, kitten, that tends to happen. Alright?” The air in the room cools considerably. If Tiger says no, it looks like Dick’s not the only one about to get a spanking.

“I,” Tiger says. “Alright.”

“Perfect.” Roman moves his shoe from Dick’s chin. “Knew you’d see it my way.”

Dick waits until all three men are on their feet and Tiger turns to him. “Stand.”

He does, keeping his head down and his eyes trained on the floor like a good boy. He focuses his burning anger on the tops of their designer shoes.

“Follow me,” Roman says, and leads them out.

 Harvey and Roman take the lead, walking side by side while Dick trails behind with Tiger in front of him. Then moment they’re out of eyesight of the rest of the party, Tiger turns to him and whispers quietly.

“You weren’t supposed to get mixed up in this."

Dick can’t say anything, so he kicks Tiger in the back of the leg. He grunts, but doesn’t do much else.

“I deserved that,” he says, and Dick gives him a poisonous “You think so?” look. _Honestly, Tiger, if you hadn’t made me fall in lust with you, the entire building would be swarmed with Justice League agents by now._

When they enter the stairwell, Tiger turns to him. “Take that ridiculous thing off.”

Dick does, slightly so it’s hanging off his ear rather than being completely off his face. He licks his chapped lips and swallows a few times, excess drool dripping past his lips.“What part should I thank you for? Leaving me drugged to be woken up by the maid? Or the fact that you came here to kill Roman?”

There is silence before Tiger speaks again. “You think it didn’t bother me, Dick? Doing what I had to do to you?”

“You gave me roofies,” Dick snaps. “Thanks for the heart-to-heart, by the way. How many times have you told that line to other marks, ‘You mean something,’ huh?”

“It wasn’t a lie,” Tiger growls. “But you have to realize that when it comes down to the world and you, I am not going to abandon my duty for a single person.”

“Wow, and here I thought you actually had your own thoughts and opinions outside of Spyral’s doctrine. If anything, you’re worse. You manipulated me, used me so you could get close to Roman without having to worry about another League agent seeing through your bullshit."

“I thought I told you this already, Dick,” Tiger says with a sad sigh. “I am not a good man. And it hurts to see you hope against hope, only for me to let you down again."

Dick puts his gag back on. He’s done talking with Tiger if all he’s going to get are excuses about philosophy and morality. It’s like arguing with Bruce all over again, except it’s worse because his cock doesn’t care about how betrayed he feels. It still thinks Tiger’s pecs are the best tits it’s ever seen. Fuck you, cock, fuck you.

Roman leads them back down to the living room, then he walks them through the kitchen, past the chefs—who clear the way like a school of fish around an approaching shark—as Roman makes his way to another, thick steel door. Opening that leads to another flight of stairs that goes far underneath the mansion.

“This way,” he says with a smile on his face, standing aside so Harvey can take the lead, Dick and Tiger close behind, with Roman taking up the rear.

“I’ll be watching on the cameras,” Roman tells Tiger with a little clap on his shoulder. “Don’t disappoint me, okay? I think we got a nice working relationship in the cards for us.”

The room Harvey brings them to is unlike anything Dick’s seen before. There are tiled floors with drains in them, chains hanging from the ceiling, and high concrete walls that are probably too thick for sound to escape. There’s a bed in the corner of the room, but it looks more like a cot, uncomfortable with a chain attached the headboard. Beyond that, the room is covered in a number of tools. It’s like walking into a garage; there are pliers and wrenches and crowbars, even a chainsaw near the back of the room, rusty blades on full display.

Dick closes his eyes.

_Just think of all the evidence you’ll have once this is done. It’ll be so nice to see him locked up in prison._

“What is this?” Tiger says, voice quiet with fearful awe.

“This is the re-conditioning room,” Roman sighs dreamily, “or playroom, whatever strikes your fancy. You’ll find everything you might need in here; clippers, rope, needles. They’re organized in the crates along the wall. I’d show you around, but I need to get ready for the auction. Harvey will stand outside the door just in case you get cold feet, Mahmut, so someone with actual balls can take over. Sound nice enough?”

There’s a twitch of muscle in Tiger’s jaw, but he nods his head. “Perfectly clear, thank you.”

“Good.” Roman smiles, and then he’s exiting the room with Harvey. He shuts the door behind them, and a distinctive noise of a door locking echoes across the room.

The first thing Tiger does is take the gag out. Dick, in return, slaps him.

“I feel like I need to remind you that we’re on camera,” Tiger says, so Dick hits him again. “Grayson.”

Dick crosses his arms over his chest. “I have a few seconds before Roman gets to wherever he’s supposed to watch us from. I think I deserved that hit.”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” Tiger says. “Mostly because I want to get out of here intact.”

“And kill Roman, I assume,” Dick says. Tiger narrows his eyes.

“I’m not going to sacrifice my mission for you, Dick. I have never done so before, and I’m not about to do it now.”

“Well, that makes two of us, then."

Dick looks around the room. Besides the door, there’s nothing that can be used to escape. There are little divots in the floor to collect what might be water or blood or a combination of the two. None are any bigger the size of their fist. At the other end is a fireplace, ashy and cool, but Dick’s not about to die trying to be Santa. That leaves only one actual exit, and it’s currently blocked and locked.

“Do we risk escaping now, or play into what he wants?”

“It all depends on you, I suppose.” Tiger gives him a careful look. “I have what I need to kill Roman, but if you’re going to make a stink about everything and blow our cover, I won’t be averse to taking you over my knee."

Dick rolls his eyes. “In the basement of a delusional psychopath, and now you want to get sexy with me? What kind of man are you?”

It earns him a slight, tired smile. “Apparently, the type of man that doesn’t know how to stay away from an idiot with a heart of gold and a mind made of cotton candy. How do you want to play this?”

“Considering we’re stuck underground, I think we’ll have to play into his demands." No use making Roman anymore suspicious than he might already be.

“Roman said he wanted me to beat you,” Tiger says. “You are aware of what affect that could have on your psyche? After everything you went through at the very beginning of our terrible relationship?”

Maybe he’s stupid. Maybe he’s still caught up in an emotion that doesn’t exactly apply to their relationship anymore. Dick looks at Tiger, really looks at him. The bastard drugged him, yeah, that much is true. But throughout the weeks and the months Dick finally got to know Tiger, the real him, not the weird man behind the hundreds of disguises that Dick chased around the world, not the man that is currently trying to kill two birds with one stone by keeping Dick safe and doing his agency’s bidding. He realizes then, even if it’s foolish, that he implicitly trusts Tiger to handle this situation with care.

“I trust you,” Dick says, genuinely. “I know that makes me real dumb or super sentimental, but I, against all the warning signs, trust you.”

Tiger’s gaze softens. “You are an idiot, Dick Grayson."

“Not the first time I’ve been called that,” Dick laughs lightly. “I think the best way to get the screams he wants is to use the cattle prod.”

That makes Tiger blanch, though he doesn’t disagree. “We’ll need to have a code. Something to let me know either to change instruments or give you a break.”

“Too obvious,” Dick says. “I think Roman knows enough about safe words that he ignores them on purpose. I’ll cough."

“Alright,” Tiger says. “Here.”

He takes Dick’s hands and leads him over to the hanging chains in the center of the room.These aren’t dainty silver little strings; they’re thick and made of iron. As Tiger locks his arms above his head, there is a moment, a terrifying moment, where Dick is transported back to the basement in Tula. How long he had been suffering within those walls, assured that no help would ever come for him. The blindness he had suffered afterward. He lets out a shuddering breath and shakes his head. There’s no time to think about that now.

“You doing alright?” a voice in his ear asks.

He nods. “Just peachy.”

Tiger steps away, and not a moment too soon, as the intercom in the room crackles to life. “How are we doing in there, Mahmut? I see you have him chained up.”

Keeping his face blank, Tiger nods, looking around the room for the location, Dick assumes, of the cameras. “Yes, I was waiting to get started for you.”

“A real gentleman. I like it. Alright, show me what you're made of, kid.”

Tiger nods his head. He makes his way over to the benches on the edge of the room where several tools lay in neat rows. Dick can’t see, count, or tell the difference between all of them at this angle, but he can make out the sharp glint of several knives, the blunt end of a crowbar, and at least several power tools hanging from the wall. He moves between several of the tools at random, considering the pointed end of some needle-nose pliers and jagged teeth of an alligator clamp. Finally, Tiger finds what he’s looking for.

Walking away from the bench, he cradles the long form of the cattle prod in his hand. It is almost identical in shape, size, and color to the one Roman used on him months ago.

He breathes through his nose and focuses on Tiger’s face. He can do this.

Tiger walks close to him and turns the prod on. The jump and crackle of electricity has Dick tensing on impulse. Tiger waits, giving him a moment to adjust to the sight of the prod before he takes the end of it to Dick’s upper shoulder.

Dhines from the sting. It’s not too bad yet, but even a fraction of a second leaves his skin sensitive and nerves alight. He closes his eyes and breathes through his mouth, not his nose, so he can ignore the dank, sterilized parts of the basement and pretend he’s not back there in Tula.

Another shock to the back of his knees has him yelping and trembling in the chains. He feels silly, reacting so badly to something he could handle with more calm the first time. _Your wounds are also mental, it will be a long time before you are okay, if ever again_ , Tiger from the past tells him.

_Oh, shut up._

With the two first shocks out of the way, Tiger starts hitting him with more voltage at random places on his body. It seems like they are meant to hurt more than do actual damage. Tiger hits the thickest part of his thighs and arms, where most of the remaining fat is. The pain there is fast and it hurts terribly, but Tiger is not hitting any detrimental places. Theatricality, the whole torture theater, Dick knows. Learned about it when he was training with the Justice League for when you’re undercover and have to participate in physical interrogations.

Give the illusion that you’re doing worse than you are. Tiger strikes him differently than Roman had. Roman immediately went for the worst spots to inflict pain and damage. Tiger is doing none of that. For that reason, Dick feels a little more at peace with what is happening to him. Kind of fucked up, he guesses, but he’ll take it against the alternative.

After the eleventh strike of the prod, Tiger turns it off. Dick supports himself on one side of his body, panting heavily, but he doesn’t cough. Tiger circles him and looks up to where the hidden cameras in the room might be.

Roman’s voice comes to them a second later. “Not bad for a newbie; consider me impressed. But don’t forget to make him apologize for his behavior.”

Tiger turns to Dick. “Well?”

“I’m sorry,” Dick says. But he doesn’t mean it.

Tiger shocks him again and he yells this time. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“Do you know why you’re sorry?” Roman asks. Dick nods his head. “Oh? Then go on."

“I’m sorry for bringing you the wrong drink.”

“Is that all?” Roman sighs. “Mahmut."

Tiger strikes him again. Dick hisses. “I’m sorry!”

“Say it as much as you want, I don’t accept apologies unless they’re genuine.”

Tiger shifts uncomfortably beside him. He must realize it too. Roman is playing with them. What is Dick supposed to do? “Mahmut, hit him again.”

“Is that—”

“I said hit him again, you piece of shit."

Tiger shuts his mouth and turns to Dick. He switches it up this time by backhanding him and then shocking him low on his navel. Okay, that kind of hurt. Hurt a lot. Dick coughs. “I’m sorry.”

Roman only sounds angrier, barking over the intercom, "For what? Shock him again.”

Tiger doesn’t move. Roman snarls, “ _Mahmut."_

This is going to get ugly real fast. “What do you want me to say?” Dick spits.

“How about apologizing to _me_ for trespassing, you filthy spy.”

Dick freezes and Tiger stiffens beside him. “Oh, you don’t think I forget a face, do you? Especially one as pretty as yours. Not to mention the name of one of my own guys. You think Lawrence wouldn’t have already met the only other white man in New York into oil wrestling? Idiots.” Roman clicks his tongue.

“Imagine my surprise when some punk shows up at the competition pretending to be him. Didn’t take long to find your partner with how much you were eye-fucking each other.”

“Why didn’t you just kill us?” Tiger asks, since Dick is having a hard time getting his thick tongue to work. “Why invite us to dinner and then bring us all the way out here?”

“Because I’m thinking about branching out.” Suddenly the walls on the left side of the room part, revealing a large flat screen behind them. There is static for a moment before it flickers to life. Roman is standing there, terrible smile on his disfigured face.

Behind him are the rows of chairs Dick had watched get set up, every single one filled with men and women from the party. The crowd claps in that snooty way rich people clap, dainty and light with their no doubt very soft hands. All of their faces are now adorned with masks, little dominos that vary from white to darker shades of gray.

Cover blown, Dick doesn’t keep himself quiet any longer. “I didn’t think shows were your style, Roman."

“They aren’t, sweetheart,” Roman says, scar stretching wider with every word. “But everyone’s wondered how I get my pets so docile, so I thought I’d let them get a look at the process before I sell them. This evening’s sale happens to be the both of you."

 _Yeah, no shit, Sherlock._ Tiger moves next to him, stepping close to unlock Dick’s arms from the chains. He’s still awfully sensitive from the shocks his body was given earlier. Really, who wouldn’t be? It’s like he went several rounds with Rocky. Tiger loops an arm around his waist to keep him upright. “Easy.”

They don’t get to rest for long. The door reopens on the other end of the room. Harvey is there holding it open as Lawrence slips in looking just as big and intimidating as before. Cracking his knuckles, he glances between the two of them, grinning like a madman at the sight.

“It’s two against one,” Dick says out loud, to himself more than anyone. “We’ll beat him easy.”

Roman, not to let Dick’s hope rise under his watch, laughs. “I didn’t forget about you, pretty boy. In fact, I think I have just the man to punish you.”

Behind Lawrence comes a man. Tall, stocky, wearing an Armani suit with leather gloves. In one hand he carries a rope, knotted into a wide ball at one end. That’s not what steals Dick’s attention, though; it’s the black skull mask that stares solely at Dick.

“I thought some nostalgia might accomplish more than some random mook would,” Roman says idly. Dick doesn’t turn to address him. Throat tight, eyes wide, Dick can’t look away from the lookalike standing barely several feet away, swinging the rope lazily back and forth. The last time Dick saw that mask was in Tula, in a place just like this.

“Dick.” A hand, Tiger’s hand, cups the back of his neck. “Dick, stop that.”

He didn’t even realize it, but he’s since latched onto Tiger’s side, digging his nails so hard into his arm that he can feel something warm and damp spreading beneath his fingers.

“Shit,” he says and tries to let go, but it would be easier pulling your tongue off a frozen pole. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to do this, Tiger.”

There’s no way, not when Roman’s got Dick’s second biggest nightmare, behind Napier—which is himself—dressed exactly as he did in Tula. Even went so far as to give him the same weapon that ended up taking Dick’s eyesight. It’s too much, too soon, especially after getting shocked at least a dozen times before this, adrenaline still pumping hot in his veins.

As Harvey shuts the door, Tiger presses his lips to his ear. “Dick, you said a minute ago that you trusted me. Do you still?”

Without looking away from the Roman lookalike, Black Mask for the sake of simplicity, Dick addresses Tiger. “Of course, you want me to put a dunce cap on my head, too? That I’m stupid enough to trust you?”

“This is what we’re going to do.” Tiger takes in a deep breath. “We are going to switch enemies.”

Dick blinks, wide and confused. “You expect _me_ to fight Lawrence? The man that creamed you on the field while you get the skinny guy with the rope?”

“I lost against Lawrence, and you are too fragile to fight a nightmarish illusion. As it stands, you never fought Lawrence, and I don’t fear Roman’s shadow like you do. This is the only option we have.”

Forcing himself to let Black Mask leave his direct line of sight, he stares at Lawrence. The guy’s big and blonde and scary, sure, but in that way football jocks are. It’s nothing compared to the ice-cold stab of fear Black Mask gives Dick. He’s a lot less likely to freeze up under Lawrence’s stare. “I still think it’s unfair.”

“Life is unfair.” Count on Tiger dole out little fortune cookie nuggets of wisdom in the face of almost certain defeat. “Will you be able to do this?”

It’s their only option. Doesn’t matter that Dick’s skin is still on fire and that his heart is more or less a fretful bird trying to escape the confines of his ribs. Unless he wants to get beaten and sold, or worse, die, he has to fight. “I… Yes. Yes, I can.”

Tiger visibly relaxes. “Okay, that’s good. You’ll be able to do it, Dick.”

He doesn’t get to finish his thought, whatever it is, because Lawrence decides right then to charge Tiger. It’s only Dick’s quick interference—taking a running leap to wrap his legs around Lawrence’s neck—that keeps him from slamming a huge fist into Tiger’s gut. They both fall, hard. Tiger doesn’t let Black Mask take advantage of Dick’s vulnerable head, throwing the cattle prod at him like a javelin.

That surprises him enough that Tiger is on him in a second, hands flat and pointed, jabbing precise hits on Black Mask’s arms. Dick recognizes the moves from the traffic stop in Russia with Leonid. Doesn’t get to reflect on that long before Lawrence is standing up, taking Dick with him.

“If a man did to me what he has done to you,” he says, “I would mount his head on my wall." And, wow, that’s a new one. Dick’s never had a criminal thug play armchair therapist before.

He slides off Lawrence before he can slam his back—along with Dick—into the nearby wall. “Well it’s a good thing for Tiger that I’m not one of those men, isn’t it?”

Lawrence grabs an armful of random tools from the wall, all heavy and metal. He throws them at Dick, quick and hard. Dick has to pull out one of his old moves from the circus days, backflipping and flying until Lawrence is out of ammo. Then it’s a quick step-step-step slide between Lawrence’s legs. Back exposed, Dick climbs up onto him again, arms wrapping around his throat.

Gripping his hands, Lawrence growls. “The partygoers were talking about your lovely face all evening. You’ll fetch a pretty nice price, and I get the added bonus of watching your mind break, kid."

“And people say _I’m_ chatty.”

Snarling, Lawrence reaches up and tries to grab at Dick’s hair. It takes a lot of energy Dick doesn’t have, still weak from the drugs, to duck out of the way. For some extra leverage, he circles his legs around Lawrence’s waist and squeezes tightly. That finally earns him a struggling gasp.

It works right up until Lawrence manages to snatch one of the leather straps of Dick’s harness. With ease, he catapults Dick over his shoulder and into the cement floor, effectively knocking his center of balance somewhere past China. His gut makes an admirable attempt to be ill once more, but nothing comes up.

Dick takes that moment to glance toward Tiger to see if he’s faring any better. No surprise, he is, mostly. Tiger’s jabs at the start of the fight have left Black Mask with a noticeable limpness in his right arm. It now hangs uselessly at his side as he tries to swing the knotted rope around. Maybe this is a little more than an unfair deal.

Lawrence, angry that he’s no longer the sole owner of Dick’s attention, snatches his ankle. “It’s foolish to turn your back on an enemy.”

Hypocrite, Dick was on his back like ten seconds ago. He doesn’t get to voice his complaints because Lawrence is launching him across the basement directly into Tiger. They go down in a painful heap.

Roman and the rest of the guests watch on the screen. Mostly silent, they stare with a terrifying intensity. The masks mostly hide their emotions, though Roman’s displeasure is quite literally on display. He smiles a little when Lawrence throws Dick into Tiger, but other than that, it looks like he’s growing more annoyed with the behavior of his stand-in every second.

Dick comes to a realization. Even if they win against Lawrence and Black Mask, they still lose. Dick’s seen how many men Roman has on his payroll; no doubt there are dozens of others ready to walk in and take care of business at a moment’s notice. They don’t even have to best Dick and Tiger in hand to hand combat. They can end it with a gun.

This fight is only meant to wear them out until they’re eventually too weak to either put up a fight or escape the path of a bullet—if Roman decides they aren’t worth the trouble to train. The door is still locked, but they have to get out of here before anything else happens.

Dick looks at Tiger. “Do you think you can juggle two men?”

Tiger, who’s currently lying flat on his back with Dick sitting on his stomach, wheezes. “Why are you asking?”

“I need you to buy me some time, thanks.”

“What?”

Dick is already getting up, darting away from Tiger and the other two men. Lawrence attempts to charge after him. Tiger pulls himself up with a groan, grabbing Black Mask by the collar and pulling the same move Lawrence just did. Lawrence trips over Black Mask’s now totally unconscious body.

 _Thanks, buddy._ Dick gives him a little salute, but Tiger is too busy getting punched in the face by Lawrence’s massive fist to notice.

Roman’s basement is full of a lot of useful things. There are canisters of gas, jumper cables, a generator, and that fireplace in the back that, Dick assumes, has a gasoline ignition. He smiles to himself and starts looking for a few necessary items. He’d learned enough from Napier, after all.

Besides, Roman should have expected this from them after their getaway in Sochi.

It doesn’t take a lot to build a bomb or cause an explosion. Most homes are outfitted with safety measures to prevent it. However, considering the whole DIY torture dungeon that Roman has going on, Dick thinks it’s safe to say that Roman might not have been able to get a city permit or actual legal contractor for the job. The fireplace is mostly for torture, which means Roman might not have put a lot of thought into the placement or creation of it.

_You can’t win ‘em all, Roman._

Dick finds the jumper cables first, nestled along other piles of ropes and cords. The generator’s next, wheeling it over to the fireplace. He looks around for a moment or two and finds the gas nozzle. Taking one last breath, he twists it on.

Then he sets up his own little device. He positions one jumper cable near the bottom of the open gas vent and has the other slowly hanging above it, wrapped around a nail attached to the mantle. Lifting it up and to the side he lets it drop, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. In two or more swings the two clamps will come close enough to spark. After that, the rest is history.

Roman’s voice snaps on over the television. “Lawrence, what are you doing? Stop him!”

The demand goes unheeded considering Tiger is, at that moment, hunched over Lawrence’s body, hair a mess and panting with a metal pipe in hand. On the floor lays Lawrence, a bump the size of a goose-egg growing on his forehead.

“What have you done, Grayson?” Tiger says the moment Dick runs over to him.

“Probably just really fucked us over. Come on.” Pulling Tiger with him, Dick brings him over to where the metal cot in the back of the room is. Turning it onto its side, they take shelter behind it.

“You two are dead, you hear me,” Roman’s voice shouts over the intercom. “If you’re alive by the time that goes off, I’ll come down there and kill you myself. Someone get in there and fix it. Now.”

Dick doesn’t get to respond with what was, honestly, his best one-liner for the whole mission. The sky would have opened and birds would have sung. It was really fucking good. But no one gets to hear it, because the explosion that happens later is deafening.

There is a rush of heat and a fiery roar that races over the top of the cot where Tiger and Dick have taken shelter. The world is blinded by a cloud of ancient soot exploding out of the fireplace, bits of concrete and tile raining over his head.. Dick’s ears are ringing with the a sound like a far-off bell. It takes a second for the room to stop shaking so he can sit still.

He looks to the side to see of Tiger’s okay, only to find him gone.

“Oh, you asshat.”

Dick grits his teeth and pushes himself up. The television in the corner is cracked and displays nothing but a line of hazy static. The door to the room has been blown open. Dick gathers himself up and limps toward it, trying hard not to think about the way Tiger _left him again._

Guess it really was going to end with a climatic fight between them.

Harvey Dent is missing when Dick reaches the door to the stairs. Climbing up slowly, the tinnitus in his ears gradually starts to fade. In its place comes distant pandemonium. The kitchen is empty save for a few remaining chefs, sitting on the ground with stunned looks on their faces. He thinks he hears the ringing again as he continues on, but that doesn’t make any sense.

Oh. _Wait._ It’s the fire alarm, he realizes. Also, as it turns out, the blast did a lot more damage than Dick had originally accounted for.

The chimney, or where it must have been connected to the outside wall, has been blown clean off. The living area is covered in rubble as well as little spots of fire that consume an ugly painting of poker-playing dogs. A shell-shocked thug, the one who had been reading _Playboy_ , stumbles over with a fire extinguisher. There are people, men and women in their lovely suits, covered in ash, and a few with bloody wounds on their foreheads running or limping to the front door.

Dick pushes past them, looking for where his partner-turned-betrayer went running off to.

He doesn’t have to look far. A shot rings out on the third floor. Dick sprints through the crowd, shoving and elbowing panicky men and women to reach the stairs, hoping he isn’t too late. By the time he makes it to the stairwell, he finds Tiger taking cover behind a collapsed marble column. Dick greets him by punching him in the face.

“Ow,” Tiger says. “I don’t think I deserved that.”

“You deserve a lot more.” Dick wants to shake him. “Where’s Roman?”

“Barricaded himself near the remains of the chimney. I’d take care of him, but I only have a few shots left and he has multiple. Besides, there’s still a little bit of gas in the air from the leaking pipes, and I don’t want to set off another spark.” Tiger hesitates. “He doesn’t seem to have the same reservation.”

Hot-headed bastard with a gun plus gas-filled air equals catastrophe. Dick’s going to need to get close to Roman before either men can start taking potshots at one another.

“Can you distract him?” Dick asks.

Several large chandlers still hang from the ceiling. He remembers swinging around on some at Bruce’s house when he was still a young and reckless rookie. Wanted to prove himself in any way he could, and sometimes that meant being a regular old stupid son of a bitch. Never realized that would come in handy someday.

Tiger narrows his eyes, but sighs and nods his head. “Alright, but I don’t know for how long."

“That’s okay.” Dick smiles. “I only need a few minutes.”

Retracing his steps, Dick goes into one of the second-story rooms where he finds the man he knocked out curled up on the floor.

“Sorry, man,” he says, untying him. He carries him out, setting him near the stairs and slapping him awake. Tells him to go and pushes him toward the first step. Kind of wants to say sorry about the clothes, but decides that would be overkill at this point.

Using the door to hoist himself up, Dick balances on top before leaping up and grabbing the edge of the chandelier in the hallway. It takes a minute to get his footing on top of the circular, metal frame before he feels stable enough to move closer to the next one a good few feet away.

Looking below, he sees Tiger watching him carefully. Nodding, Dick takes a breath and starts swinging between the chandeliers. Taking his own steadying breath, Tiger calls out to Roman.

“If you come out now,” Tiger says, “I promise to make a deal for better living arrangements."

“Like I’d believe a word you say, you little fink,” Roman shouts back from across the destroyed ballroom. Dick can see the shine of Roman’s black hair underneath the light of the chandeliers. There’s a sea of chairs knocked over from the blast, covered in ash, a camera and a small projection screen—probably what Roman used to show the audience just who they were bidding for—that has been pierced with debris.

They’re lucky, Dick realizes then, that no one was killed in the blast.

Swallowing, Dick continues to swing across the open space while Tiger talks to Roman.

“If you do not come quietly, we will be forced to take certain measures in order to detain you. These measures may cause harm and you will not be able to protest them in a court of law.” Tiger glances up at Dick, then back across to Roman. “By continuing to resist, you are acknowledging this fact—"

“My lawyer will have me out in a second anyway, it doesn’t matter,” Roman snarls. “Might as well pack up and let me sue you for trespassing and destruction of property.”

Dick makes it to the next chandelier. There are only two more to cross before he’s right on top of Roman.

“I should have taken you out the moment I figured out who you were,” Roman spits. “Taken you out back and shot you like the pigs you are.”

“If you could have even managed to tame your ego for long enough to manage a feat as impressive as that,” Tiger says. “You are a weak man, Sionis. It’s why you’ve finally ran out of luck."

“Or maybe I should have kept the two of you as my own personal pets. The other agent, Grayson, you’re there, aren’t you, baby? I know you would have liked to be mine. Little attention whore with a smart mouth. I remember you from Tula, sweetheart,” Roman coos. “I would have had a lot of fun taking you—”

Dick’s heard enough. Silent as the grave, he drops down from the glass chandelier on top of Roman’s unsuspecting head. The gun pops off, but Dick swats it out of his hand. Roman punches him in the mouth. Dick stumbles back, but Roman is right there, snatching at the leather buckles of his harness.“You think you can sneak up on me, you little shit? Who do you think I am?”

“Dick!”

The warning comes too little too late, Roman and Dick falling off the exposed edge to the bottom floor below. The impact forces the air from Dick’s lungs and leaves him gasping. Groaning, he rolls onto his side, only for Roman to tackle him again.

“Hit me, you piece of shit,” Roman yells, scrambling for his neck. “Come on, you little pussy, let’s go! You gonna show me what impressed the League so much? Or did they only accept you on account of that pretty mouth? Because I’d do the same fuckin’ thing.”

Roman’s hands are tight around his throat and Dick fights, scrambling for purchase, but Roman doesn’t budge. And he can’t breathe, he can’t think and he can’t _breathe—_

A blur of black and brown has Tiger tackling Roman off him. His gun is nowhere to be seen. He punches Roman in the mouth, sending him sprawling onto the floor. Hissing, Roman reaches for his lost gun.

Dick grabs around for something, anything, and finds a twisted piece of metal. He brings it above his head and swings, hitting Roman until he backs off of Tiger.

“You little shit,” Roman snarls, heaving Dick up by his aching throat. “That was your last mistake.”

Tiger snatches Roman away from Dick with an animal’s growl, slamming him into the floor. Dick rolls onto his side, coughing and gasping wetly. His chest hurts, his head hurts, his whole body hurts. He’s tired of being dragged around and used and manipulated. He just wants to lie there and not get up for a whole year.

It’s not for his own sake or his reputation that he pushes himself up, ears ringing loudly, to stop Tiger.

“Tiger,” he says. A few spaces away, Tiger doesn’t budge. He’s straddling Roman’s waist, hand squeezing Roman’s throat so hard his fingers overlap each other. Roman squirms and bucks, wheezing loudly in Tiger’s grip. “Tiger!”

Roman goes limp little by little, eyes starting to roll back in his head. Dick left the emitter. He doesn’t want to have to take Tiger out this way. Not after how far they’ve come. He can’t do it, he doesn’t want to do it.

The word to say comes to him after a moment of panic. “Scar.”

Tiger freezes. Then, to Dick’s surprise, he lets Roman’s unconscious body fall to the floor. Dick sags to the ground and Tiger, panting heavily, looks at his hands, then at Dick. Surprise is written clear on his gorgeous face.

Dick collapses back against the marble floor, looking above him at the fiery rubble as it rains down around them. Tiger comes to stand over him, looking down at him with a tired yet fond expression on his face.

“You are an idiot, Dick Grayson."

Dick huffs a laugh. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

The two of them look at where Roman lays on the floor. A minute passes, then two, the fire crackling above them.

“I cannot allow this man to live,” Tiger says.

“And I can’t let him die,” Dick says right back.

Tiger purses his lips and steps over to Roman’s body once more. He stays there for a moment, glaring at his face. Then, abruptly, he kicks Roman in the shoulder and sighs. “Spyral will not be happy with me.”

“I don’t think the League will be too pleased with me, either.”

“They’ll want me to report back. Explain how the Turkish police managed to arrest Roman Sionis surrounded by evidence of his human trafficking crimes before I could find and kill him."

Dick hums to himself. “I assume Interpol will get involved, too. Everyone loses, except them. That’s kind of a disappointing end to an epic story, isn’t it?” In the distance, the faint sound of sirens echoes across the hillside. “How long do you think we have before the police arrive?”

“A few minutes. Probably a few hours for Interpol.”

Dick smiles. “I can think of a few things I’d do if I had a time frame like that.”

* * *

They leave Roman tied like a pig on the front lawn of his home. Surrounding him are dozens of pictures from one of the home computers, along with several slaves that Interpol had found for sale on the dark web. Beyond that, there is a black-haired boy with a red collar that refuses to leave his side and calls him Master. His name is Peter, a boy from a slum in Gotham Roman found picking around his car. He’s been missing for the last three years.

Roman, in the end, says nothing as they force him into the back of a police car. Dick watches, dressed in the loose folds of one of Roman’s suits, Tiger beside him. They’re covered in dirt and ash and blood as they watch the authorities clean up the mess. Holding an ice pack to his face, alight with the blinking red and white of police sirens, he looks, in that moment, as tired as Dick feels.

It’s almost too quiet at first. The sirens and the commotion going around Roman’s villa drowns out most of the night ambiance. Gradually, it grows; the sound of a woman’s light, melodic voice reaches Dick from the top of a hill. Then the lyrics become clearer, as does the strumming of a guitar, slow and soulful. Dick recognizes words, French, as _La Vie en Rose_. The source of the music becomes immediately obvious. A couple on the roof of one of the apartment buildings below have a stereo system set up beside them. In the moonlight, they waltz together, an older man and woman, swaying around in little circles, bright smiles on their faces.

Whatever tension he’d still been holding onto since entering Roman’s villa that evening melts away.

“Spyral won’t try to reach out until most of the police have gone home. Before that happens, we should probably get our stories straight,” Tiger says and turns to Dick. His eyes are soft and Dick smiles lightly, offering his hand.

“I have an idea on how to spend these next few hours.”  
  


They drive to a motel a little bit outside the city. It is small, quaint, and hopelessly touristy. They offer them a complimentary ticket to a boat tour that will take them under the city bridges and into the city’s most famous architecture. They accept it and leave it in the waste bin on the way up.

They’re silent as they ride the elevator. They pass the ice pack back and forth to press to the blossom of bruises on each other’s faces. For Tiger, it’s his black eye, and Dick, his busted lip.

The room they’ve been given is number 405 at the end of the hallway. Dick can hear the broadcaster of the evening news leaking under the doors of the nearby rooms. There is a man laughing loudly in 401 and what sounds like a group of teenagers in 403. The door is cracked open, and the smell of dope is heavy in the hallway as they pass.

Tiger stands to the side and lets Dick open the door with the key. Inside the dark room is a small living area, bedroom off to one side. Tiger shuts the door behind them. No one moves to turn on the lights.

The moon peeks in through the open window and they stand there for a minute, breathing in each other’s air and feeling the heat.

Then they move simultaneously, like two magnets meeting each other. Tiger’s mouth is just like Dick remembers from the night before. It’s warm and inviting, and Dick groans at the taste of him. Remnants of ash and coppery blood sit heavy on his tongue. Tiger growls and slams Dick against the door to the room. All breath leaves Dick in an almost obscene rush.

Wrapping his legs around Tiger’s waist, he pulls him closer, arms curling through his exposed hair and tugging at the short strands. Tiger parts from his mouth only to press their foreheads together.

“If you,” Tiger pants, “if you don’t want this, tell me now. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”

“If you stop one more time, I will actually kill you,” Dick says. Pulling him back down into another kiss, their teeth clack together, but Dick can’t find it in himself to care.

Tiger tears the loose jacket off of him and throws it to the floor. Dick retaliates by pushing the cloth off Tiger’s shoulders, forcing him to wiggle out of it unless he wants to touch Dick some more. Tiger’s hands push up his shirt and start moving up and down the line of his spine along his back. His hands, hot, heavy, and big make Dick wheeze into the kiss. He wonders if Tiger is big everywhere, not just his impressive hands.

He gets the answer in a moment when Tiger ruts up against him, and the size of the bulge in his pants makes Dick wheeze.

“Oh god,” he says.

“Don’t worry.” Tiger laughs in his ear. “I won’t do anything to you that you are not ready for, habibi.”

Dick freezes and Tiger stops, a question on the tip of his tongue, face almost adorably confused. Then he seems to realize his mistake and he colors beautifully, furiously. “ _Do not say anything._ ”

“Did you just call me beloved?”

“For once I want you to shut your mouth, that is all I am asking. I know for you that is one of the most impossible tasks in the world—”

“I kinda find it hard to stay quiet when a man with a literal heart of stone until a few hours ago calls me his beloved.”

“If you don’t hold your tongue, I will take you over my knee. Lord knows you deserve it for what you have put me through.”

“Of course _, habibi,”_ Dick purrs.

Tiger stares at him, brows furrowed and amber eyes alight with desire. He kisses Dick hard enough that it drives the air from his lungs. Making their way over to the bedroom is one of the weirdest disrobing dances Dick's ever gone through. There is a less than standard organization to their removal of each other's clothes—Dick accidentally gets caught up in his own sleeves not once, but three times as Tiger tries to remove his tie.

"I don’t know why you went to all the effort of putting this on," Tiger admits. "If you were just going to have me take it all off later."

"Well, what’s the point of giving someone a present if they don't have to go through the trouble of unwrapping it?" Dick grins. "Much more fun this way. Besides, you insisted.”

"That's because I didn't think this would be happening. If I'd known, I would have kept you in the dress the waiters were wearing,"

"Ooh, Tiger, do you have a kinky side you’ve been keeping from me this whole time?"

"I can still walk out the door and return to Spyral, Grayson."

"But you won't." Dick smiles and draws him into a long, pressing kiss. He’s right, Tiger will hardly return to his handlers while he has something more important and, frankly, more appetizing to offer.

Roman's suit is a fashionable piece of 2016 Armani, a stark off-white with red accents in the maroon stitching and button-up vest. It sits loosely on Dick's waist and shoulders. Roman had been a lot wider up top than he was bottom—Dick hardly needed help from the belt to tighten it. Tiger, more or less, seizes it with more concentrated violence than he did Roman himself. He tears the vest in either direction, buttons flying and popping off the walls. Dick tries to help Tiger in the meantime, slipping his coat off, but Tiger is a whirlwind of clawed fingers and ferocious kisses. It's all Dick can do to just hang on for the ride.

"Are you going to stand there and let me do all the work?" Tiger growls against his Dick's mouth.

Lips numb, nerves all but fried, Dick can only choke out, "Yeah, _ah._ "

"You sound like I've ruined you already." Tiger leans back, irises barely a ring of molten amber around a sea of growing black. "I’ve barely even touched you yet."

"It's been like seven months of pure teasing." Dick reaches out and, finally, pulls Tiger's jacket off. Only eight or so more pieces of clothing to go. "Forgive me for being a little over-excited."

"How do you think it's been for me?"

Tiger lets go. He prowls forward, head ducked, glaring down at Dick through the dark lashes of half-lidded eyes. He looks just like a hungry predator, like a _tiger._ Dick steps back on instinct, hair standing up on end as his mind yells, " _Danger!"_

Back hitting the opposite wall, he braces his hands against the cheap, yellow wallpaper. Tiger comes to a halt mere inches away. Leaning down, he ducks his head, mouth lightly pressing against Dick’s cheek before he draws it along the skin to whisper in his ear.

"Do you know just how hard it is to want someone you know you should never have? How it feels to see them move and flirt and tease with a number of men and women from the corner of your eye, and desperately hope that one day they will do the same to you?" A rough, calloused hand comes up to wrap around Dick's throat. Swallowing, his Adam's apple bobs against the crook of Tiger’s hand. "When you wrestled with me in Istanbul, cocky from your victories, I wanted to throw you to the ground and take you in front of the entire arena. So that every man there would know that I was your only worthy opponent and your _king."_

"Oh, God." Dick grabs the collar of Tiger’s shirt and kisses him hard enough for it to burn.

The rest is mostly a blur of the bruising press of lips against his mouth and clothes being tossed onto the floor. Dick is down to only his socks by the time he realizes he's naked, shivering in their cool air of the room with only his socks on. Tiger stands in front of him, hair a mess, panting as he hurriedly unbuckles his slacks. Lips kissed a deep red, sweat already beading off his forehead, Tiger slips off his belt and whips it to the side with a crack.

"Maybe I will punish you for your flagrant disregard for your safety, coming after me when you were still recovering from being drugged."

Dick eyes the leather belt. Now he knows he's messed up, because the idea of getting whipped with a belt isn't exactly what would have turned him on days ago. Scratch that, add months and maybe even years to that, because Dick's not exactly vanilla, but he’s always been on the border between "maybe wearing a leather gimp get up" and "only one finger up the ass will do it, thanks." But his own cock, painfully hard as it's been since he first walked through the door, jolts as the motion. Tiger notices and offers Dick a charming smirk.

His cheeks burn.

"But considering everything we've been through..." Tiger tosses the belt off to the side. "...I don't think it would be a good idea to go for that kind of rough play today."

Puffing up his chest, Dick says, "I can handle it."

Tiger only laughs, a rumbling throaty sound while he toes off his shoes. "I have no doubt that you can, _habibi_ , but, after all I have done to you in the last twenty four hours, it's me, I think, who deserves it more than you."

When Tiger looks at him, his gaze softens. "Get on the bed, Dick."

He does without hesitation. In the meantime, Tiger slips off his pants and boxers, revealing his thick cock. Dick's mouth waters. As if sensing Dick's about to go from patient-boy-waiting-for-the-bell-to-ring-to-jack-off-in-the-toilets to about-to-hungrily-devour-anything-that-looks-slightly-like-a-cock, he climbs onto the bed.

"Would you like to taste it, Dick?" Tiger cups his chin. "Do you want to suck my cock?"

"Yes," Dick groans. "Please, anything, I'll be so good for you, Tiger, my Tiger."

"Of course you will." Tiger presses their lips together, softly kissing him, then pulls away. "But let me give this to you first."

Dropping his hand from his chin to Dick's chest, he slowly lowers him onto the bed, smirking all the while. The bed beneath him could be made of nothing but pins or coarse dirt and he'd take it all the same. With the look Tiger fixes him, almost stunned adoration, he can only part his legs as Tiger moves between them.

"When we were in Tula and you had just spent long, terrible hours in Roman's dungeon, I think that's when I really started paying attention to you." Tiger presses a soft kiss to the inside of Dick's thigh, stubble scratching at the sensitive flesh. He drags his lips down, mouthing at the skin of his thigh while Dick tries to keep his legs from quaking too badly. "You were this brightly intelligent, powerful agent. I didn't know who you were, yet your devotion and unwillingness to break even when you were at the hands of a man the Devil would fear made me admire and respect you."

"F-funny you bring that up now." Dick drops his head back against the pillows. His own cock lies on his stomach, twitching and leaking pearls of precum. "I'd think you were trying to turn me off."

"I don't mean to bring up bad memories," Tiger says and licks at the skin of his thigh, a hair's length away from his balls. Teasing, but overall apologetic. "Most of our time together has been bad. I just wanted you to know that, had I met you under other circumstances, I would have done anything to be able to see you again."

That brings a blush to Dick's skin faster than any of the litany of filth they had been toying with before. Bright red, he throws an arm over his eyes, trying to block both Tiger and the color of his cheeks from view. A rumbling chuckle vibrates along his skin, up the sensitive line of his cock before a warm hand moves his arm away and pins it to the side. Tiger, smirking down at him, leans over and presses their lips together.

It's different than the kisses they shared in their frenzy to get to the bedroom. Softer, more passionate. Dick's eyes flutter shut, swept away, just exploring the taste of Tiger’s mouth, subtle tang of scotch hidden beneath coppery blood. Tiger licks into his parted mouth, and Dick shudders at the realization of where that talented tongue is soon going to be. Reaching up, he hooks his arms around Tiger's neck and kisses back, harder and more frantic. If this is going to be his first and final taste of Tiger, he wants it to last.

"Oh," Dick moans into the kiss. "You're a right bastard. Giving me this," Dick sucks on his lower lip, "only to take it away."

"Again, I could say the same to you." Tiger sits back, mouth kissed-red. Pupils nothing more than black saucers, he leans down and finally places a light peck to the head of Dick's cock.

"Oh shit," Dick groans, and watches Tiger intently, refusing to blink and miss even a second of his fantasy-turned-reality.

Apparently, like everything else, Tiger excels in giving head with the same precision he uses to incapacitate a wanted gangster. Fingertips skirting up and down the length of Dick’s inner thighs, dipping behind his balls to tease his hole and perineum, Tiger drags his face down the length of Dick's cock with kittenish licks. His eyes are closed, but his brows are slightly furrowed with intent, extremely focused on the task at hand. Stubble scratches along the sensitive skin is almost unbearable as it is intoxicating; Dick can't even begin to scold himself for how poorly he imagined Tiger in fantasy. The reality of it, of him, is incomparable to anything his perverted and salacious mind could think up.

Then Tiger opens his mouth and takes in the tip, hollowing his cheeks and sucking him brutally hard.

" _Fuck,_ " Dick groans. "Oh my _god._ "

Tiger chuckles, and the vibrations that thrum around his cock after he does are even worse. They make his spine arch, desperate for more, and his hips rock up into Tiger's loose mouth. An apology is on the tip of his tongue, but Tiger only opens one eye, half-lidded and lazy, and manages to smirk even with his lips stretched apart. Then, as a punishment surely, he swallows Dick down to the root, burying his nose into the coarse hair at the base.

Dick absolutely does not wail.

Strong hands pin his thighs to the bed while Tiger's throat clenches around him as he swallows twice. Damn spies and their lack of gag reflex. Dick practically melts into the mattress. The wet heat of Tiger's mouth around him, the look in his eyes as he stares up at him; it’s all too much. Dick keens, low and long.

Tiger pulls off of him after a moment, a light smirk on his face. He gives him one long lick from the bottom to the top, and Dick curses. "You're so terrible. I can't believe you."

"What?" Tiger's voice is already hoarse. It adds another sexy point to his overall stupidly excessive sexy score. "Did you think because I didn't humor your terrible sex jokes I would be incompetent?"

"I was kinda hoping," Dick says, chest heaving already. "I thought I was going to be this knight in shining armor to show you the amazing capabilities of what filthy sex could do for you."

"I was engaged to be married once." Tiger holds Dick's prick in a loose fist, thumb circling around the leaking slit. "But we were hardly virgins."

"There is no way you learned all of this from wife sex." Dick rolls his hips slightly, fucking Tiger's fist in low thrusts. That is, until the man Dick now realizes must be some kind of trickster god pins him down. "This is… This is like crazy college dorm room exploratory sex."

"Spyral has honey trap drills," Tiger says. "We have to be good at everything. I've gotten quite a bit of information out of targets from pillow talk. I don't do it often, but when I do, I do it well."

"I didn't get sexy sex training."

"That is the Justice League's problem, not mine."

"See, you say that, but here you're giving me the equivalent of some one thousand dollar fellatio from a woman in a mink coat who wipes you down with a hankie made of gold. While I, in return, am the dude that offers you a sloppy dick suck in the broken stall of a McDonald's where dreams go to die."

Tiger's expression quickly changes from taken-by-lust to considering-a-snapped-neck. "Grayson, not only is that hardly mature, it is also disgusting."

"Sorry," Dick says, then asks, "Can you perform auto-fellatio? Maybe that will feel better."

Rather than respond to Dick's inane babbling, Tiger ducks his head and once again swallows him down to take the words right out of his mouth. Admittedly effective. A warm hand cups his balls, rolling and squeezing them ever so slightly while Tiger strokes him with his tongue. Another hand, dry but warm, around his cock, rubbing up and down as Tiger bobs his head in time. Dick's certain Tiger's trying to suck the life out of him with the way he attacks his cock. Worries that he might come too soon, especially when his stomach starts to tense and needy little whines and mewls spill from his mouth like rain in a storm.

Then Tiger pulls away, a thick strand of spit glistening in the dark, connecting his lips to Dick’s cock. "Do you still want to suck me, Dick?"

"God, _yes_." Dick scrambles to his feet, shaky and loose from denied orgasm, and pushes Tiger onto his back on the bed. He kisses him, fierce and quick, tasting himself, bitter and musky, on his tongue.

Dick slips down the length of Tiger's body in between his hairy thighs—and damn, is Tiger hairy—where his thick cock lies against his stomach, swollen with blood. Dick's own cock twitches at the sight, mouth watering. He leans down and takes it in his hand, just to feel the weight of it. Groaning, Dick pulls the skin back to see the leaking head and slides his tongue over it. Tiger's taste is bitter and a little salty—Dick huffs a laugh, just like the man himself—and powerful. It's erotic in itself, to slide his tongue just underneath the foreskin around the sensitive glans at the head. A hand curls through his hair, tugging at the strands, and he looks up to see Tiger watching him, intense and greedy.

Take the boy from the circus, but not the circus from the boy. Dick blooms under the attention of a room with the kind of joy a dog would when bringing back a ball. With Tiger, it feels almost as if he’s high above the ground on a tight wire, the nervous dropping plunge in his stomach when he first steps out that grows during the thunderous boom of fanatic men and women cheering when he makes it to the other side. He is predatory, the way he leers over Dick while he licks along his shaft with small strokes of his tongue. Each tug to his hair leaves Dick tingling, nerves alight as he finally takes Tiger halfway into his mouth.

Fortunately, he's not the only one with a few surprises.

Without building up his tolerance, Dick takes one breath through his nose and then relaxes his jaw only wide enough so that Tiger can slip to the back of his throat. The gasp Dick draws from Tiger's lips is worth the hell that's defined their relationship. He is breathless, eyes dilated black in speechless awe. The hand in Dick's hair is lax, and Tiger melts beneath him. Huffing a laugh, Dick delights in the way Tiger’s cock twitches in his mouth. Precum leaks from the tip down his throat that Dick swallows easily.

If he didn't have Tiger's full attention before, he does now. With a wink, he pulls the same trick Tiger did with him; he swallows.

" _Ah, fuck._ " Tiger's thighs twitch and clench on either side of Dick's face. "You are the _worst_."

Tiger's head falls back on the pillows, staring helplessly up at the ceiling as Dick begins to bob up and down. If anyone ever needs to feel empowered about themselves, the best means to solve such a problem is to suck a very angry man's cock. Especially if they're large and come from Kandahar and are named Tiger. If his ego had taken any sort of beating that evening, it's extremely possible that it can be seen from space at this point.

Drool spills past his lips, gliding down the skin of his balls and staining the covers below it. Moving his head slowly back and forth, Dick encourages Tiger to get the picture and hold his head steady to fuck his mouth proper. Rather than do that, however, when Tiger finds it in himself to pick his head back up and watch Dick obscenely try and swallow his balls as well, Tiger hisses.

"If you're trying to deter me from fucking you by making me finish in your throat, I assure you that will not work."

Dick raises an eyebrow and hollows his cheeks, sucking so hard it makes Tiger yowl.

"Y-You—" Tiger pulls at his hair sharply, yanking Dick off his cock. "Don't do that."

Lips swollen, spit dripping off his chin, Dick bets he paints a picture that could be too scandalous for even the most offensive pornography. "Do you have an aversion to coming?"

Dick's voice is post-fuck rough already, doesn't know if he'll have any voice left by the time they're done with each other. By the look Tiger's giving him, has been the entire night, he has little doubt that it might be close to gone. For now the glare that settles on him is tired, but there is an exhausted amusement glittering within the fiery shades of amber.

Then a shadow passes over his face, a shadow draping over his eyes as he reaches forward with a crooked finger. "Come here, Grayson."

Throat desert-sand dry and cock painfully throbbing against his leg, he crawls across the bed, up the expanse of Tiger's hairy chest, until he is slightly above him. "Yeah?"

Reaching up, Tiger caresses Dick's cheek softly, calloused fingertips brushing across the hot skin of his cheek beneath his eye. For a moment Tiger just looks at him, as if taking inventory of the way Dick looks. The shade of his eyes, then down the slope of his nose, before coming to rest on the pink bow of his upper lip.

"I considered having you like a dog, shoving your face into the bed so you had a means to swallow and muffle your screams." Tiger drops his gaze down to his throat, hand following suit as it goes along the line down the center. "If only to spare the neighbors of your yowling voice."

There is no way Dick can follow that up with a quip, not with the way his head is left light-headed with all the blood rushing south. Is this the same Tiger that flushed and groaned at the way Dick had made jokes at the expense of what he thought was innate prudishness? There must have been a switch somewhere in the car.

"Christ, Tiger," Dick moans.

"But then I wouldn't have the pleasure of seeing your face."

Tiger leans down and presses a kiss so hard to his mouth that, for a fraction of a second, Dick thinks he means to steal away the breath in his lungs. He groans, wrapping his arms around Tiger's neck and closing his eyes tightly. One of those rough hands skirt down the edge of his waist, feather-light fingers grazing over the length of his cock. It disappears for a moment; there’s a little snap of plastic, and then a finger, cool and slick, teases at the puckered skin of his hole.

Moaning, Dick tilts his head back, away from Tiger's greedy mouth. "Oh _god_."

"I have wanted to do this for a long time," Tiger says. Dropping his head, he presses kisses and drags his teeth along the ridge of Dick's collarbone. "I imagined you like this often. Writhing beneath me and calling out my name. I wondered if you would be just as chatty as you were normally. If you would try to get a rise out of me even as I took you."

Tiger slides in his finger as he speaks. The stretch is so slight it draws little more than a gasp from Dick's lips. Lax and loose from Tiger's mouth, he reaches up to tug and curl his fingers through his hair. It's surprisingly soft, thick and dark, and smells faintly of lavender underneath soot.

"You are a lot more kinky than I realized." Dick lets his eyes flutter shut. "I expected you'd be into hand-holding and missionary. Now you've got lube on hand—"

Tiger pushes his finger in a little deeper, a light sigh spilling from his lips. "As I said, chatty."

Wheezing out a light laugh, Dick pulls at Tiger's hair. "Part of my charm."

Biting a little harder on the light skin of his collar, Tiger pushes in another finger, past the tight rim of muscle. It's slow, torturously so, less Tiger trying to be gentle and more purposefully trying to drive Dick to the edge. Which works almost too well, the way it sets his nerves alight inside him. A wave of static pleasure shoots up and down his spine as Tiger twists and strokes and prods his fingers deep inside him.

"Does the fantasy match reality?" Dick asks after a moment of Tiger silently teasing and fingering him.

A rumbling laugh. "Fantasy cannot hold a candle to you."

Heat rushes to his cheeks and Dick coughs, mumbling under his breath. "Jeez, you trying to win a flattery competition I don't know about?"

Tiger scrapes his fingers over a little cluster of budding nerves that makes Dick clench down frantically hard. Another laugh is buried underneath the sheer shrill high of Dick's loud wail. Shaking terribly as the wave passes, Tiger withdraws his fingers, rubbing them over the puckered skin before he withdraws his hand.

Another plastic click and slick sounds make Dick look down to watch Tiger prepare his cock. It's been in his mouth and he's felt it on his hand. Suddenly, however, it looks bigger than it already was—and believe him, ladies and gentlemen at home, it's a monster. Two fingers hardly seem a decent enough preparation.

A hand rests against his shoulder, warm and familiar. Dick glances up to see that common scowl on Tiger's handsome face. Annoyance has been put aside; his eyes are not pinched together tightly, but soft with concern. "Have you been taken this way before?"

"Would it bother you if I said yes?" Dick had only done so once during training with an older boy named Roy. They were excited newbies to training, fresh out of the academy with a desire to show everyone what's what. A rivalry bloomed followed by friendship, and after that, companionship. It was fun for the few short months that it lasted between them, before Roy started a family and left the agency to take care of his daughter.

"No."

Tiger brings him back with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Dick looks up at him, at the little scars on his forehead and the tiny one above his eyebrow, the one that he'd been so obsessed with for all those early months they were apart. Reaching up, Dick lets his hand cup the side of Tiger's face, finger smoothing over the lightened skin of the scar. Tiger watches him intently, eyes tracking the movement of his hand before it rests against his cheek.

"You never told me why you have those marks," Dick says lightly, looking at the three scars in the center of his forehead, uncovered and on display. He remembers the first time he saw them. The oddity of their appearance and the question of their purpose, how Tiger had them only to have to cover them with make up for disguises or hair or cloth. During their time together in Russia, the little moment that he had seen them after wiping Tiger down, he had kept them hidden behind a loose cloth.

There is nothing there now, and Dick couldn't imagine seeing him without them.

Something hot and hard presses up against Dick's hole and he swallows, dry and tight, but refuses to look away. Tiger leans into the touch of his hand as he gradually begins to push the tip of his head past the muscle. "They are hardly as interesting as you think."

The stretch and burn of Tiger's cock makes his eyes flutter shut. Dropping his hands to the mattress, he digs them into the cloth, back arching off the bed as Tiger slowly moves in, centimeter by centimeter. "T-Try me."

"Funny, you want to have a conversation when you are struggling to breathe." Tiger stops at what must—he _hopes_ —be partway. Writhing slightly on the blankets, Dick’s muscles flutter and try to bear down on Tiger's thick cock. It burns terribly, pain making his arousal flag until a calloused hand wraps around his. It does little to help him forget the way it feels to be split apart so intimately. He whines and gasps and tugs at the blankets, but nods at Tiger's questioning glare.

"T-Tell me."

Tiger's gaze relaxes, and he laughs again, more at ease and amused. Leaning down, he kisses along Dick’s neck, down to the hollow of his throat and back up. "When I was a child, we had nothing. I lost my parents before I could remember what they named me. Orphans, all of us, we took names for ourselves. I admired the tiger, as all children do, and took it as my namesake."

As he speaks, Tiger continues pressing in. Desperate, panting whines fall from Dick's mouth as he is stretched impossibly wider. His arms flail about on the bed until Tiger pins his wrists to the mattress.

" _A-Ah, oh fuck_." Dick blinks, tears gathering on his lashes. Helplessly trapped on Tiger's cock, he rolls his hips down, taking him in even wider and shakes terribly as his body struggles to accept it. It's an all-encompassing feeling, stretched so full of Tiger's prick, only able to pant and wheeze and whine. Why did he even ask Tiger that? He can barely keep one thought in his head before it fizzles out from the tremendous feeling of pure _sensation._

"But what is a tiger without its stripes?" Tiger rocks his hips forward, finally settling all the way inside of Dick. "I had none, so I had to make them myself."

Dick gasps and squirms, but Tiger growls and holds him still. Breath hot against Dick's ear, the trembling of his throat vibrates down to Dick's very bones. He mewls high and nasally, a sound he didn't even know he could make, and lets his legs fall open.

" _Nnh,_ w-who would do that, _aaah,_ " Dick slurs, tugging weakly against the iron grip Tiger has on his arms. Little sparks of pleasure race up and down his spine and he very nearly weeps when Tiger pulls slightly out, just out of reach of his prostate.

"Scarification is hardly a new or abnormal practice. People do it all over the world, even in America. What I did is tame in comparison." Tiger rocks his hips in a steady motion, in and out. It's not enough to render Dick breathless, at least not yet, but it makes him pant shallowly to keep up, obsessed with the high he gains.

Tiger presses his mouth to the center of Dick's throat, scraping his teeth along the fluttering bob of his Adam's apple. "You would look nice with a simple scar, a ring around your throat like a collar."

"Oh, _shit_." Dick tilts his head back further. Daring, or maybe pleading with Tiger to do it, to bite him, to mark him so permanently Dick will never have the chance to forget him. How he looks, how he made Dick feel, everything.

It occurs to Dick, rendered speechless and drooling incoherently as Tiger releases his wrists to grip the headboard and fuck into him with reckless abandon, that he never wants to lose Tiger. He can't imagine going back to Justice League headquarters in New York without his company. Can't imagine going on without listening to Tiger sigh impatiently when Dick makes some inane comment about a Disney movie he'd hate.

He's… He's in—

Tiger snarls above him, hips rocking harder, pushing out every breath Dick takes with a snap of his hips. He can only mewl, kittenish and weak, muffled underneath the squeaking of the mattress and the slamming of the wood against the wall of the room. Tiger leans over him, teeth bared, eyes pools of vast black focused entirely on Dick's panting mouth and wet eyes. It’s a primal, almost deep-seated need that drives Dick to reach up with one free hand, pull Tiger down and bite him.

He bites him so hard blood greets his tongue the moment he licks over the skin while Tiger howls above him. A hand slips from his wrist and into his hair, shoving him back down onto the bed as Tiger's cock mercilessly slams against his prostate. Dick comes suddenly, so hard it makes his eyes roll back and his vision go white while hot streaks of come paint his stomach and Tiger's.

Body spasms wrack him, clenching down so tight on Tiger it must be painful with the way he grunts. He comes not long after Dick, warmth filling him as shudders and whines, tingling from over-sensitive nerves.

Tiger collapses on top of him, sounding almost as wrecked as Dick. They catch their breath together, breathing heavily while sweat drips down Tiger's jaw and onto his chest.

"We will," Tiger pants after a minute or ten when their breathing is more or less steady. "We will have to clean ourselves."

"We will." Dick rolls them over so he can rest his heavy head on Tiger's chest. Listening to the thrumming beat of his heart, he sighs. "In a minute."

* * *

 Neither sleeps.

Instead, they lay there, sticky and stinking from cooling sweat, still with blood and ash and rubble coating their hair and skin. They know, Dick especially, that if one of them does first then the other will slip away, leaving only a cool empty space on the bed as their final memory for the other.

Dick doesn't want his final memory of Tiger to be the remnant of cooling come on his stomach and the half-made sheets of the bed where Tiger had slept. He doesn't want Tiger's last memory of him to be that of a wrinkly sheet and pillow stained dam with drool. Dick supposes they could fill up the hours with more sex—and he would definitely not regret leaving the little motel so fucked out he could barely walk to the curb and signal for a taxi—but neither of them have moved since Tiger collapsed besides him in bed.

Just listening to the sound of the other's heartbeat.

There are probably bags under his eyes, dark purple like a cartoon dog. Tiger fairs no better. His hand gone dead with sleep hours ago under the weight of Dick's body. The other trails up and down Dick's waist leaving gooseflesh in its wake. They say nothing, because if they do they will have to acknowledge that this will be the last time that they ever see one another. The second time they met was coincidental, the third time was unlucky chance.

For through now, was their inability to let Roman Sionis continue tormenting the souls he had dragged into his brutal trade. Spyral and the Justice League have stood apart for differing methodologies since their conception. This is an accidental occurrence in the eighty years either of them has operated. It will not happen again, that much Dick is certain of. Tiger probably is too.

Likewise, they have both failed. This had been Dick's second chance after he Napier. His status as agent will most likely be terminated if Bruce has his way.

Eventually, Dick gets a notification. Tim has arranged for Simon to come down to pick him up and drag him straight home to Gotham by way of their private jets. Tiger will take the car they stole from Roman's house, maybe make his way back to Netz or whatever other secret Spyral base there is nearby.

Slipping off of Tiger's chest and out of the bed feels colder than when they entered. Gathering and putting on Roman's clothes makes him sore and achy in ways he didn't know were still possible for him to feel.

Tiger lays there, watching him lazily, as handsome as a model on the cover a magazine, hair tousled and looking like a dream. A perfect finale to a disaster of a mission.

"Throughout my life I have known and lost dozens of men," Tiger says when Dick starts to button up his shirt. "I have never met a man as uniquely intelligent, strong-willed, and compassionate as you. I doubt I ever will again. The realization that this will be our final meeting has left bereft of words."

Dick offers him a smile, ignoring the way his heart stutters in his chest, clenching tight around a feeling that only grows the longer he stays in Tiger's aura. "You're pretty articulate for a man that's speechless."

Sitting up, Tiger rolls his legs off the bed, feet on the floor, covers only partially covering the lower portion of his waist. What Dick wouldn't give for a painting of Tiger this way. Then he stands, covers dropping away until all that remains is Tiger. Only the man, no more disguises, no more lies, no more manipulation, and on his face is open truth. There on his face, in the pinch of his brow and the tightness of his jaw, is profound and indescribable loss. Not for the mission, not for his failure, but for him.

For _Dick._

He steps forward, hands coming up to cup Dick's cheeks in both hands. Then he tilts forward and presses his forehead to Dick's their noses touching together just barely.

"Maʿal-salāmah, habibi."

_Go with peace, beloved._

* * *

The realization doesn't hit him on the silent drive back to Istanbul in the back of Simon's car. Dick doesn't think about the finality in Tiger's face or his words. He cannot. He doesn't think about the way his body felt, soft and loose beneath his on the bed. He doesn't think about the way Tiger smiles or the fact that he purrs when he's pleased with himself in a smug satisfied way.

Can't think about the way he looked with the police lights illuminating his face and the rage with, which he defended Dick.

Because if he does, Dick knows he will surely break down. He can't, not when there is so much left still to do.

* * *

Bruce meets him when the plane stops to refuel in Heathrow.

He is waiting on the tarmac when Dick steps out to stretch his legs in preparation of the long flight across the Atlantic. It's a little past the middle of the night, sky dark and devoid of stars from the lights of the London skyline. The only thing that remains are the harsh flood lights that illuminate the area in front of the private government hanger. His shadow cuts a long, stretching line across the concrete as Dick disembarks from the Justice League private jet. Simon does the smart thing and waits inside, talking with the tower, leaving Dick to confront his boss and his mentor alone.

Face gaunt, hands tucked into the long black overcoat he always wears Bruce watches him a stoicism that Dick has begun to despise.

"You all that's left of the welcoming party?" Dick says, jet-lagged already and tired from his sleepless night. Bruce watches him with cool intensity, eyes dropping down obviously to peer at the hint of the purple bruise Tiger had left on his neck. Lying would be an insult to either of them, and though Dick doesn't regret his actions with Roman Sionis and Tiger, he will not offend the man that has become a second father to him.

"Roman Sionis is currently being held in Silivri Prison," Bruce says. "I find it odd that he is not currently half-way across the Atlantic Ocean where he will be transferred to Blackgate Penitentiary while his court date is set. That, instead of being overseen by Justice League officials, Interpol agents are presently arguing with Russian, Italian, French, Turkish, Georgian, and a dozen of other agents of law enforcement from other countries in Hague over who will be the one to prosecute and sentence him."

Dick listens to Bruce speak, the way his voice lowers at the inflection of Roman's name and the subtle disappoint grow and grow until Bruce is all but quietly yelling at him in the middle of runway in busiest airport in England. He stands there, motionless under the fury of Bruce's ice-cold glare and takes it. Doesn't nod his head or shy away. Waits for Bruce to finish and demand in that controlling voice of his for an explanation.

"I acted in what I thought was the situation's best interest. Roman Sionis has been apprehended along with substantial evidence that indicts him and a number of collaborators in high positions of foreign governments. His lawyer, Harvey Dent, who was present and aware of Roman's actions has gone missing and is wanted for evidence tampering, human trafficking, assault, and perjury. Roman has lost the only man that has kept him out of prison and with the freeze on his assets it is unlikely he will be able to hire a man as successful in a court of law as Dent was."

"You disobeyed a direct order."

"I acted in a way that allowed authorities to apprehend a wanted sadist who delighted in the destruction of human lives." Dick says louder. "If you want to argue with my methods you can take it up with all superior members of the board. You are no my overseeing officer, that would be the head chair of the Justice League, James Gordon."

"You acted against League orders on an unsanctioned mission during a probationary period on your agent status. You went without contact to your mission partner for nearly a month. You had your mission partner, Leonid Kovar and Tim Drake lie on your behalf while you colluded with a foreign agent crossing international borders into a country that had not cleared us. You have broken, within the last 108 hours since your departure from Russia, numerous international laws. You failed to heed a direct order from a Justice League chair supervisor and your mission. Have I left anything out?"

"No, sir."

"I thought not. For now consider your special agent status revoked. You are to remain here under my watch while oversee negotiations in Hague and make sure the terms of Roman's sentencing and arrest are satisfactory to those he would have met in the United States."

Dick refuses to argue with Bruce. Knows how pointless it is to fight with a man so set in his own ways that they'd be out on the tarmac for days until someone from the TSA tells them to leave. Doesn't want to spend the rest of his life on a runway staring down a man that he, arguably, disobeyed. Clenching his jaw tight he nods his head.

"Of course."

Bruce continues, apparently not satisfied with Dick's embarrassment by giving him a tongue lashing in front of all the workers who scurry by on luggage carts to different passenger jets. "You will be working with Tim Drake and myself, the only time you're allowed out of country is with either Tim or myself."

"So I'm under house arrest," Dick says a tired smile stretching across his face. "Or country arrest rather."

"I'd rather keep you within my sight for the time being." Bruce steps forward, brushing past with the cool winds that blow across the long runway. "I'm sure you understand."

Dick does. He doesn't agree and shame, hot and quick flashes through him before anger can take its place.

* * *

Days pass.

Then weeks. Months. A year. Then two.

Within that time Dick becomes the god father to a girl that likes to drool and spit on her daddy's vested and buttoned up shirts. They name her Robin—Tim will never admit it, but Dick knows the name had been chosen long before, after Dick's tendency to call his protégés the same—and Dick gifts her soft teddy bears and stuffed birds he finds in corner shops on Farringdon Street.

Dick knows, deep down, that Tim and Stephanie call him over so often to visit Robin is because they don't want him to stay home in his Justice League mandated apartment stuffed to the gills with cameras monitoring his every move. They don't want to see him throw himself into his work, checking over files and dates and times from over twelve years of Roman Sionis' travel dates, bank statements, partnerships, medical records, number of lawyers, foreign associates, and more. Dick has a tendency to work himself to the brink of exhaustion.

Even more so when he's trying to forget.

"I'm sorry," Tim says once, while Dick bounces Robin on his lap. She's only four months old now, babbling nonsense and prefers her mother to her father—and then her father to her mother once she has mommy's interest—and tugs on Dick's hair when he lifts her up high. "For what happened."

Dick's never told anyone about the extent of his relationship with Tiger. Never told anyone about the depths he would have gone to protect him near the end. The way he stayed up, listening to his heartbeat to memorize it. How he hears it when he closes his eyes in the seconds before he drifts off the sleep. But they can see it on his face. In the way he smiles, bright and becomes the most diligent Justice League liaison of Interpol. Doesn't matter what time zone Dick's in when they make a request for information. Dick is awake and on top of it.

He is working himself to death. There is no other way to say it. Refuses to stop because he knows if he does then he will have to come to the realization that he was, hopelessly, tragically-

 _-in love_ -

with a man he will never see again.

"It doesn't matter," Dick ignores Tim. Like he ignores Stephanie when she corners him in the kitchen and tells him to request a break to follow them to the states to visit family. He says no. He says I’m alright. He says I'm fine. And he works.

Days bleed together in monotony, only hallmarked by dates in Roman's case. It takes a year to prepare a case and all the charges that will be brought against him. Since most of his victims had been taken and distributed throughout Russia they plan have his arraignment there, until the Turkish government starts arguing with the Russian government, worried that, due to the amount of friends Roman had to the point where two intelligence agents had been tortured there is a possibility of full justice not being delivered. Russia fights back by bringing up humanitarian charges against several Turkish prisons, effective in nearly getting Roman released on bail.

They are only spared Roman being re-released due to the fact his newest lawyer, a man named Rolando Gimrack, is half the lawyer that Harvey Dent was.

It's around that time that Dick is told he would have to testify in court and given a mandated UN therapist who works for the Justice League on contract named Dinah Lance. Dick's sure he drives her mad for the first three months he sees her, his second year of being in London, with tales of the time he once stole a box of Captain Crunch from the cafeteria in Gotham. He tells the same story every time, laughs at the same parts, and lies back on her couch asking her what she thinks of the weather that day.

Then one day, on the anniversary of his departure from Turkey, he wakes up with Tiger's words in his ear. About mental recovery and psychological wounds from the hotel room in Russia and he spills his guts.

Tells Dinah about the nightmares, about the fake tooth in the back of his mouth that he had replaced and how it bothers him, smooth and perfect. Tells her about Roman's cooing voice and the way he was degraded, the humiliation of being held in one of Roman's notorious basements where he was beaten extensively for twelve hours.

"You're lucky to be alive," she tells him.

"It had nothing to do with luck," he says, looking up at the ceiling and tracing three straight lines, side by side. "Not when he was looking out for me."

Dinah makes a little note on her pad. Doesn't know if she really listens to him anymore and just draws pictures of the Captain on the cereal box over and over. "Who is he?"

_A son of a bitch that left me drugged in a hotel room. A compassionate asshole that spent an entire week nursing me to health. A man that speaks like he ate an entire dictionary but knows how to suck dick like a porn star. A man that I've been mourning since I left Istanbul in the early morning and have dreamt of nightly._

"No one," Dick says. "Just some ghost."

The court case lasts three months. The amount of evidence they have piled up against him is staggering. Dick is forced to sit in the audience of the room everyday, watching victim upon victim upon victim walk up in tears. Some have dogs in their laps. Others have cats, there to comfort them when they break down into heaving panic attacks as they recall the darkest moments of their lives. One is a child, a young girl no older than ten. Her name is Natalya and she is from a farm in Siberia. Fair hair grown a little out past her shoulders with blue eyes, she cradles a teddy bear the size of a full-grown man beside her in the witness stand. When the prosecution asks her probing questions about the men she had been given to for a month, she buries her face in the teddy bear and refuses to come out until the shaking stops.

Roman sits unperturbed, almost bored, alongside Rolando as the girl speaks. Laughing under his breath when one of the women on the panel starts to cry. In that moment, Dick wishes he had let Tiger shoot him.

Eventually, Dick is called up to the witness stand. First as a victim, he talks about Roman's torture, about the teeth pulling and electric shock. About some of the things he doesn't remember exactly and then going blind. One of the men in the back of the room is on the verge of sickness and Dick watches mystified as he pulls a brown bag up to his lips and vomits loudly in the silent courtroom.

Roman leers at him the entire time, eyes raking up and down Dick's face, shrewd and assessing. Dick can hear his voice in the back of his mind cooing out at him. _Pretty boy, you'd make a pretty pet wouldn't you._ There is also poorly masked rage beneath his eyes as he stares at Dick. So much so that Dick is placed under protective custody and forced to change hotels to one a little further away from the courthouse.

"Just a formality," the officers that escort him say.

Dick isn't shocked when his room is firebombed the following day. Roman seems a little disappointed that Dick shows up. But he says as Dick walks by to take the stand, "glad to see your still in one piece agent."

The case proceeds. The defense is good. They tear down half of the victims who now recant their stories, too terrified by masked men that apparently stalk them on their way to work. One of the victims, a man named Vito, goes missing then turns up in the Mediterranean Sea with his body more purple than white, throat slashed and genitals removed. Roman offers his condolences to the family with a smile. The defense buys out others though Dick and the rest can't prove it. Dick works harder, connecting more dots and putting up more evidence to counter whatever the defense presents on Roman's behalf.

His hard work pays off. Rolando is just not a good a lawyer as Harvey Dent was. His body is found two months after he goes missing, a week after the end of the court case, stomach torn open and left for coyotes to feed on in a desert in Arizona. He had been tortured and starved for at least a month.

Roman Sionis is sentenced to three hundred years in Ankara, a F-type prison. It is a place that Dick would not even wish his greatest enemy.

But Roman Sionis is not his enemy. He is a monster.

With Roman officially locked away Dick is left with nothing to consume his time. He spends the week after Roman is officially transferred locked inside his room and sobbing. Roman, as twisted and demented as it sounds, was Dick's last connection to Tiger. With that chapter officially closed there is nothing left to hold onto.

The loss finally hits him and he feels like he can barely breathe.

* * *

"If I knew you were spending your two weeks fresh off the Sionis case living like this I would have come over sooner."

Tim is standing in his living room—well, not _his_ living room it's technically the Justice League's living room but after two years of learning to love the muted yellow walls it might as well be—dressed to corporate perfection with a Hugo Boss suit button up nice around his slight frame. Hair slicked back, overcoat in his arms, he looks around Dick's living room with a kind of mute fascination. Dick supposes if he walked into someone's home and saw piles of dirty laundry on the floor, Chinese take-out boxes—and that's a cliché in itself, why is it always _Chinese_ take out—that have been staked up in a sort of mini tower of Pisa he too would have questions about the sanity of the man or woman living in it.

Dick, sitting in only his limited edition Cars boxers and over-sized I Love Curry shirt from a diner down the block, takes another bite of his oatmeal. "Normally, people clean up before guests come over. The guest usually tells them first too, so they can put their home to rights."

Tim blinks. "I'm not talking about this."

It's kind of funny, watching Tim try and elect what is the worst offender of mess in the living room. Moving his eyes around before he throws his arms out at everything. "What I'm talking about is that."

Tim points to the opposite wall of the living room and, okay, Dick guesses that it might look really bad. On the wall, before Dick's "renovation" there had been the portrait of a beautiful sunset over some grassy hills in Scotland and an extremely nice television. Now, of course, the portrait is lying on the ground, have buried under more of Dick's laundry and the television is leaning against the wall. In their place, is a plethora of newspaper clippings and pictures and red string that look right out of a conspiracy theorist's wet dream.

Dick blinks. Holds out his hand to point to the wall and says, "That's just a hobby."

"You're obsessed."

"No, because obsession means something that continually preoccupies a person's mind. And, obviously," Dick raises his bowl of food. "I am not currently thinking about it."

"The remaining members of Roman's ring have been made a priority by Interpol. The Justice League has no further jurisdiction." Tim says, stepping up close to the wall, examining the papers. The one he chooses to look at shows Roman's face, biting the hand of the security agent stuffing him into the back seat of a police car. It's Dick's favorite picture on the entire wall. He's been thinking of getting it tattooed on his back.

"I am not breaking the law by keeping up with current events," Dick takes another bite of his oatmeal. "I am simply being informed."

"There's a difference between being informed and what you're doing," Tim reaches out to pluck one of the red strings. "You have an article from a newspaper in Kangerlussuaq, Greenland. Why?"

"Vacation," Dick says. "Once Bruce gives the ok."

Highly unlikely, they've gotten along better since that tongue lashing in Heathrow two years ago, but Bruce still holds a grudge against Clark Kent for spilling coffee on him during basic training. That was fifteen years ago. There is no way Bruce is going to forget about what Dick did so soon.

"Well, I don't know how likely that will be," Tim agrees and steps away from the wall. "This isn't a social visit, incase you were thinking that."

Right, it's always work, work, and work with the Justice League. One crisis averted and then onto the next in the making. Can't the villains of the world take a break for maybe one week out of the year? Or a month?

"Right, well then you best hand me what you need to give me and then be on your way."

"Sorry," Tim offers him a slight smile. "I'm here to make sure you look halfway decent for this. So unless you want me to physically drag you into the shower you'll go."

Then Tim looks around the mess of the living room and purses his lips. "While I get to this."

Within the time it takes Dick to run through his morning routine, or late morning considering it's about 3 in the afternoon, Tim's made the entire living room spotless. The washing machine is thumping away in the downstairs closet when Dick walks down the stairs in his only remaining clean suit. Suit buttoned up nice and neat, hair wavy, he looks about as put together as Tim with the exception of the dark purple bags under his eyes and just refuse to go away. The last remaining mess is the "conspiracy wall" that Tim just shakes his head at.

"Obsessed my ass," he mutters under his breath. "We'll take your car, I took a cab here."

"Where are we going?" Dick asks after he's locked up the house, a small little cottage a little outside of London.

"To the Italian Consulate, Bruce is waiting there with some agents from Interpol. I don't know much about what they want, only that it was imperative that they met with you before they disembarked."

"Mad that I forgot to have my picture taken with the team for the end of a successful case?"

"You're surly today," Tim says.

"I did have a man come into my home unannounced and mock my information wall." Dick pulls out of the driveway and starts the long slow drive to the center of London.

"It's a conspiracy wall."

"We'll agree to disagree."

Luckily for Dick, or for Tim rather, they don't talk about the wall and Dick's "obsession." It's not really an obsession, it's just, an activity to keep his mind off things that don't involve men with terrible dispositions that also dislike Disney movies and are named after an animal. Everyone has his or her own method of coping and just because his includes looking up a vacation home in nowhere Greenland doesn't mean he needs an intervention.

Surely, there are worse things he could be doing. Like breaking into Tim's work computer and using his clearance to look up Spyral contacts just as he had done at Dick's request last time.

* * *

Okay so he has tried that. Shut up, everyone has a breaking point sometime or another.

Tim instead talks about Robin, though Dick knows everything about her at this point. How she likes to tell her parents no and then fling food on the walls when Stephanie walks by. Tim has a tendency, when he is trying to make sure he isn't being offensive, to chat about things he thinks are safe topics. Which means on the forty-minute drive into London, he tells Dick the same story seventy times. Dick's almost started rehearsing the story with him by the time they pull up to the Italian Consulate.

It's a boring building on Farringdon; rectangular and tan with small square windows and glass entryway doors. It's cool for this time of the year, late summer and early fall, a few of the women in the building have scarves still wrapped around their throats from the chill that comes through the door.

"This is about as far as I go with you," Tim says once they've stepped inside. "They're waiting for you on the second board room floor. They just wanted to make sure I got you out of the house."

Dick laughs. "An escort now? You're really playing all sides of the field there, Timmy."

"Ha ha."

Tim hugs him goodbye, which is a little dramatic if Dick is going to say so, and leaves him to find his way up the stairs of the building himself. Inside are numbers of people in all the same shade of gray suit, black shoes, and white under shirt. The women dotted along the corridor are, of course, in pencil skirts with little coats buttoned around their waists and velvety black pumps. The men, in contrast, are in gray slacks, gray jackets, and black brogues, the only thing that differs between the lot of them is the color of their hair. Kind of seedy, sort of government conspiracy strange. However, Men in Gray doesn't ring as well as Men in Black.

Dick finds the board room door open, inside the small space is a table with two Interpol agents sitting on the other side. A man with blonde hair, an easy smile, and an older woman in glasses with a steady frown. Bruce is sitting in the chair next to the only open one, buttoned up and looks, greatly relieved the moment he looks over Dick and realizes he didn't come to this meeting in pajamas.

"Dick," Bruce holds out his hand to the two Interpol agents across the table. "This is Senior Detective Inspector Steve Trevor and Detective Chief Superintendent Amanda Waller. This is senior agent Richard Grayson, the lead agent on the False Face Society."

The woman, Amanda, looks over him with the same scrutiny you'd give a man in a Tesla begging for spare change. Steve on the other hand sits up and offers his hand immediately.

"Pleasure to meet you, I looked over your official report on the case. Daring, stubborn, tenacious, everything you could ever want from a junior detective."

Dick takes it with a little smile, shaking his right hand while Waller eyes the both of them with a pinched scowl. "Of course you'd like him. Rule breaking, disobedient, and," Waller pauses and skims through a file in front of her. Dick didn't even realize she had that open. "At least seven different recorded outbursts and recommended for anger management by a therapist. He shouldn't even be an agent."

Okay, ouch. He offers her a little sheepish smile. She shoots it down so fast and so quick that Bruce looks uncomfortable. "They were lapses of judgment that have been since corrected."

"I should hope so," Amanda glowers at Bruce and looks at Trevor. "Surely, there is a more appropriate agent that has just as must knowledge when it comes to the details of the Roman Sionis' case. Leonid Kovar was the longest running agent, besides Grayson."

"Leonid Kovar is an agent for the Russian SVR and a temporary Justice League member. He is not ours to give free agent status to." Dick takes a seat while Bruce goes on about defending his anything but spotless record. Offering a little shy smile to Steve and Amanda, he stays silent while they tear his record apart. "Aside from that, the Russian Federation is running their own investigation without foreign aid. They would be unwilling to lend the agent with the most experience with this case out."

Amanda frowns and flips through the folder, file after file. "What about Simon Baz?"

"Was only involved with cleanup and transport. Interpol had jurisdiction before he could get any work done. I don't understand why you are arguing with me, Waller," Bruce glares from across the table as Waller picks her way through papers and papers. "Dick is an extremely intelligent, practical, and hard-working member of the Justice League. I couldn't make a higher recommendation for his involvement in working with Interpol to prosecute the rest of Roman Sionis' allies."

Dick smiles a little bit. Bruce and him hardly ever get along now. Their positions on how to handle cases often run in opposing sides and Bruce's affinity for absolute control is a personality flaw that still refuses to bend. Deep down, Dick knows that Bruce sees him like a son, and like any other man raised so hyper-masculine that the idea of expressing any other emotion that dark rage is the equivalent of self-sabotage, he has a hard time showing Dick that he cares in subtle ways.

Most of the time it ends up playing out like on the Heathrow runway from two years ago. Desperately trying to prevent and control Dick from ever getting close to the line of danger again.

Amanda, on the other hand, merely holds up a paper. It's the newspaper clipping and coroner's report from the Napier case. "Even though he, according to your own statement, blatantly disregarded mission scope, putting innocents in danger. This is not Mr. Grayson's first offense, the Napier case-"

"The Napier case was an isolated incident involving a suspect that possessed high-levels of instability and sadism," Bruce barely raises his voice, it's so indistinct that most would brush it off as an attempt to speak clearer. But Dick knows Bruce. Knows him as well as he still knows the faint smell and brand of his mother's perfume. Bruce is undeniably and terribly furious. By the subtle softening of Amanda's face, she must know it too.

"What happened was a tragedy and if it was anyone's fault for what happened as a result, it was mine for putting two rookie agents into the line of fire at the first sign of Napier's obsession. You know me as well as you know Trevor, Amanda, to disregard my recommendation because of difference of opinion between myself and Dick is an insult to his capability as an agent."

Bruce reaches out and shuts the file in front of Amanda. Sitting up straight, he assesses her carefully then turns to Trevor. "If you want to find another agent to lead your task force you will have to give me another two months so I can attempt to find an agent with even half of Dick's experience and ability."

Amanda levels her gaze with Bruce before she, eventually, sighs and leans back in her seat. "That will hardly be necessary."

Steve clears his throat. "Considering this is my interview for my selection of head agent for this case, you will not interrupt again."

"My choice hardly had the same amount of disciplinary marks on his record," Amanda slides the folder off the desk and into her bag. "He followed orders to the T."

"Which is why having a partner who is able to think on his feet will be a good pair up to head this investigation. Rules aren't what caught Roman Sionis."

Steve looks at Dick now, friendly smile on his face and reaches under the desk to pull out his own, smaller file. "As you know, Interpol will be heading the investigation to bring in the rest of Sionis' conspirators. He has a lot of men and women on his payroll that can rebuild his empire without his leadership."

Setting the file down on the desk, Steve opens it up. There are a number of papers Dick recognizes as court transcripts. There are names circled from witness testimonies, locations, as well as an unknown group, The False Face Society.

"Interpol does not have the authority the Justice League has to conduct arrests or carry firearms. That's why we will be opening a joint task force between them to do so. Your status and experience with the False Face Society leader, Roman Sionis, makes you head agent of this investigation. You will be reporting to me as your official supervisor or Ms. Waller."

Dick gapes. "I-this is an incredible opportunity."

"Yes, it is," Amanda says, back to her annoyed cadence. "Which is why I expect the utmost professionalism from you. You would represent not only the Justice League but Interpol. Making a mockery out of my organization from your inability to follow orders will not be tolerated."

Dick nods. "I understand."

He more than understands, despite Amanda's dislike for him to act out he knows that this is the best chance he could have gotten. To return to the field and be given a path away from Bruce's oversight and his own idea of protection getting in the way of his work.

"When do I get started?"

"We're giving you a few days to get up to speed. There are a few possible leads that you will need to discuss with your partner. Once you've developed a plan of action you'll discuss it with myself and Waller for approval. Sound easy enough for you?"

Dick nods. This is better than a vacation. No wasting away in the meantime swimming with thoughts of Tiger. He can go back to being a useful agent again. Maybe Tim was right, maybe this is obsession. He shouldn’t be so happy to be going right back to work after his last case ended. But here he is grateful to be once again back on the same incident that led him to Tiger in the first place.

"How soon will I be meeting my partner?"

"Now, hopefully," Steve stands up from the desk. "He asked to meet across the street in the café, I'll be sending you the case files by the end of the day."

They all shake hands, Amanda does it a little too tightly, he knows he'll have to be careful under her watchful eye from now on. Then it is just Bruce and Dick, standing in the room.

"You didn't have to say those things about me you know," Dick says. "I'm sure she would have seen it my way eventually.

"Waller is an extremely difficult and stubborn person," Bruce opens the door, regarding Dick with a raised brow. "She would have eaten her own jacket before she agreed with you on anything."

"Pot meet kettle then, we're both equally stubborn. You didn't have to say anything you didn't mean though. I understand what I did wrong in the past, especially what happened with Napier-"

"I mean it Dick," Bruce says, voice firmer, eyes two unyielding stones. "I meant every word I said. What happened with Napier, what happened to Jason was not your fault. You did what you needed to do in order to stop a man from continuing on a path that might have taken dozens of more lives."

He is silent for a moment, hand reaching out to rest on Dick's shoulder. "I know what I have been unfair to you. That I have acted irrationally out of fear for what might have happened to you had something gone wrong. Especially after what happened with Jason."

Hardly surprising, the only reason Jason was still alive and not buried in an unmarked grave from his parents ill-afforded medical care was because of Bruce's intervention. Bruce had a tendency to bond extremely thoroughly, a parent to their newborn, the moment they became his protégés. Jason had been one he brought into the program like Dick. They both mourned his loss terribly.

"It's alright," Dick says soft. "Thank you, for what you said. I mean it."

Then something that signals the end of times happens. Bruce hugs him, so tight it's hard to breathe. He steps back a second later, familiar warmth retreating and leaving Dick all the more colder. "You'll still have a Justice League supervisor, who will be Tim, on my behalf. You'll be in good hands."

"Thank you," Dick smiles and allows Bruce to lead him out of the consulate before they have to wave goodbye to one another.

The sun is partly hidden by the soft white of an idle cloud, a cool shadow passing over the length of Farringdon Street. The café at the other end of the road is a little tea and cake place with a pink decal on their bright windows. Outside are a number of little round tables and sleek, metal chairs where a couple sits sharing a shortbread pastry laughing at the football game they attended the night before. Dick looks around for his "partner" and wonders, dumbly, if the reason Bruce told him to meet there was because Tim had tattled on his poor dietary choices.

Clearly, no one is to be trusted.

Inside the café, there are a few more tables, mostly packed with men and women with dainty and colorful kettles that they use to pour their order of tea into even smaller even dainty teacups. The menu is written in pastel chalk, mostly of drinks and pastries along with a small lunch menu of salads and chicken-centric meals. It's so obnoxiously cute that Dick wonders if his Interpol partner is a child with favoritism in the light and magical.

He would saw Harry Potter fanatic, but those books are rather dark.

When he goes up to order and asks for a wait time for seating, a bright happy woman who has absolutely no idea that he's there to meet someone smiles and sends him back to a table that's obviously occupied by a couple.

"There's someone there," he says once he makes the decision and asks for a simple green tea.

"Yes, but they said they were ready to leave when someone needed a table." She smiles, happy to be of service and tell this obviously tired young man that he can take a load off. "We'll have someone get you your order in a second."

Confused, tired, but overall happy with the fact he's back on a job, he turns to the table at the end where a man in a woman in gray matching suits slide out of their seats. They smile at Dick; everyone is so cheerful today, and leave without introduction or even a little acknowledging wink that they are part of Interpol.

 _Child-like café, tardiness, and cryptic meeting point instead of introducing themselves inside the consulate_ , Dick thinks as he looks out the window of the café and watches the traffic. Who knew Interpol was the most James Bond like group out of all of them.

That's a joke for everyone keeping score at home.

Minutes pass, the waiter comes by with an empty wine glass with a small bundle in the bottom. A teapot, covered in pink swirls and a fragile painted spider climbing along its spout is set in front of him. The waiter then pours the hot water in the pot into the wine glass near the top and leaves.

Dick, mystified, stares at the little bundle at the bottom of the water. It slowly grows, expanding in the water until something suddenly snaps around it, from within the ball the green leaves uncurl, folding outwards along the curve of the glass. In the middle orange petals of a flower bloom out and open, darkening the color of the water to amber. It's beautiful, Dick's never seen anything quite like it.

"Amazing isn't it? I can't tell you how many times I watched it do that."

It's only his exhaustion, Dick thinks, that keeps him from whipping his head right off his shoulders. The voice, though it's been two years, makes his heart tighten in his chest and he stares up from the glass and the flower to where Tiger stands.

"Hello, Dick."

He looks the same as he did two years ago, with the exception of blood and ash staining his cheeks. Smiles at Dick, soft, a little nervous, and looks down at the empty seat across from him, hopeful.

There are no words. Dick, for the first time in his life, has no idea what to say. Tiger, thankfully, speaks for him, careful and gentle. "May I sit?

"You're here," Dick says. "You're-how are you-what are-"

"I'm surprised the agents you met with failed to mention my name," Tiger says and there it is, the subtle hint of irritation slipping into his tone as he sits down across from Dick. "You'd think if they'd want us to get off on the right foot they'd have told you just who you were meeting here-"

"You're here," Dick says again. "You...Spyral doesn't-"

"Interpol reached out to Spyral a month ago," Tiger watches him, eyes soft. He wears that same tan shemagh over his head, the three scars Dick got a glimpse of in the cabin in Russia are there, partly hidden beneath it. He wears a light brown coat and dark pants. Casual, no disguises just like the night they spent together at the motel. What was supposed to be their final goodbye.

Except Tiger is here.

_He's here._

"They needed help cleaning up the rest of Sionis' men. I'm sure they told you the rest, the men that got away." Tiger looks at him, analyzing him the same way Dick did in return. Is there anything about him that's changed in those two years? Is Tiger comparing him to the same last memory, Dick half way out the door of the motel, hesitant and regret painting his features? " They wanted an agent with the most field experience on the False Face Society to lead their investigation so Matron agreed to keep me out on loan."

Dick blinks.

"You're my new partner," Dick says.

"Unless you are here by chance and I've made a grave mistake in approaching you then yes," Tiger says, matter-a-fact. "I am your new partner and, more importantly," Tiger reaches into his pocket and sets out a little folded up badge. It's no different than Dick's Justice League identification card; instead it's for Spyral listing him as Richard Grayson, Agent 37.

Dick takes it, pinched tight between his fingers. It's light, weighs no more than a feather, but it is definite and it is real.

"Because we'll be working together, I had it seen that you were made a temporary agent," Tiger says. "You'll have full use of our safe houses and intelligence for the upcoming investigation. Likewise, you can, should you choose, be given a dosage of Spyral's nanomachines for mission aid-"

Tiger's yelp makes half the café turn around. He rubs his knee under the table, waving off the men and women with a little smile while he glares at Dick. "Grayson, you idiot, what are you-"

"Died, I nearly died for you," Dick says, shaking the card. "I put my life on the line to save you from Roman after you drugged me and this is the thanks I get?"

"Dick-" Dick cuts him off.

"37? 37! I am at least number 7 or-or 5! But 37! Tiger," Dick drops the card on the table and shakes his head, a little smile on his face. "What? Did my pencil not work during my agent's exam or something?"

The tension leaves Tiger's shoulders in a great whoosh, a half-hearted scowl taking its place. "Obviously, your unwillingness to kill makes it hard for you to progress in certain agent fields that Spyral requires."

"Sorry I didn't pass torture school," Dick says, but he hardly means it. Too busy looking at Tiger and the way he tries to poorly conceal the little smirk underneath the trembling lines of his scowl.

"Interrogations are sometimes needed, besides I couldn't show blatant favoritism to a man that is only a temporary Spyral agent."

"Oh favoritism, huh?" Dick leans across the table; delighted in the way Tiger's cheeks brighten and turn several shades of red. "Why _Tiger_ I didn't know you liked me that much."

"This is hardly professional, we are partners now, I expect you to act accordingly."

"You know I'm actually starting to like my number," Dick croons. " _Agent Thirty Seeeeeeven...Ba Bow Bow-_ "

"Please, stop," Tiger says, face flat, but Dick watches the his mouth twitches and reaches forward to take his hand across the table.

It feels like home.  
  



End file.
